


To Mend The Cracks With Gold

by starsandgutters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (just had to put the second one in because it cracks me up that there's a dedicated one), Alternate Season/Series 10 Finale, Angst, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Fix-it fic, M/M, Pining, Smut, Temporary Character Death, Temporary Character Death - Winchesters, canon-compliant up to 10x21, canon-divergence from 10x22 onwards, don't mind me I'm just patiently trying to fill the holes this show keeps dropping everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:04:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 58,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The river ends at the source.</i> </p><p>After almost losing Charlie to the Stynes, and almost losing Cas in the fight that follows, Dean Winchester is ready to do whatever it takes to rid himself of the Mark of Cain. But when the solution turns out to lie in unfinished Winchester business - shutting the gates of hell - Dean begins to realize this is a quest he might not survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows the events of the show up until 10x21; starting with 10x22, I set off on my own path, to try and build a version of events that makes more sense to me. 
> 
> Huge thanks go to my wonderful betas: [Museaway](http://museaway.com), [Anna](http://teacass.tumblr.com), and [Amber](http://weasleywasborninabin.tumblr.com). I couldn't have done this without you guys. All remaining mistakes are, inevitably, mine.
> 
> Also, this story comes with two amazing art pieces by the lovely and talented [shanikins42](http://shanikins42.tumblr.com)! You can see them [on](http://shanikins42.deviantart.com/art/Im-Sorry-DCBB2015-570394956?ga_submit_new=10%253A1446738273) [deviantArt](http://shanikins42.deviantart.com/art/DCBB-2015-impala-scene-570394227).
> 
> [Tumblr masterpost](http://starsandgutters.co.vu/post/132633408533) | [LJ masterpost](http://starsandgutters.livejournal.com/10162.html)

**Dean**

 

There’s just so much blood.

And Dean’s seen a fair share of blood in his life‒ in fact, more than the average person ‒ but it had never been‒

He can hear Sam retch behind him, and even the gagging sound makes the bile rise up in his throat, not in sympathy or disgust, but in vile, wretched _fury_ .

There’s _so much blood._

Dean closes his eyes, tries to will himself to breathe, every attempt just constricting his lungs further. It feels like there’s a white-hot poker being pushed inside his head, right behind his eyes. He’s angry, God, he’s so  _angry_ , and it’s all because—

Dean forces himself to reopen his eyes, to stare at the obscene mess of blood in the bathtub, the complete wreck that’s been made of her body. He lets the anger rise, crest, intensify, pulse harder. He’s going to need it.

But there’s also something else struggling to be heard, something the Mark is trying to scream into submission, and that something is what stings at Dean’s eyes, making them prickle and burn; he thinks he’d cry, if he didn’t feel so completely dried up inside.

“Oh God—” he can hear Sam moan behind him, still sounding like he’s going to either vomit or pass out. “God, Charlie—”

“Shut up,” Dean says, low and sharp, cutting him off. “This is all your fault. Do you hear me? Every last bit of this, it’s all your fucking fault.”

The pained silence that follows that is almost a noise in itself, but Dean doesn’t turn around to look. He’s having a hard time taking his eyes off the murder scene, and with rising horror, he can feel the searing pain behind his eyes slowly being overtaken by a delighted pulsing in his arm.

_Blood. Death. Blood. Death._

The Mark is getting  _excited_ , and it’s all Dean can do not to throw up then and there: in horror at what’s happened, in horror at himself. Abruptly, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, because if he has to stare at Charlie’s lifeless eyes for one more second he’ll either scream or faint or vomit or—

— _or kill Sam_ , a cold, honest little voice at the back of his mind supplies, and Dean shudders violently.

“Dean,” says Sam weakly, “where are you going?”

Dean stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn around to look at his brother. He can’t. He’s afraid of what might happen.

“I’m gonna find whoever did this,” he replies, his voice a low growl. “And I’m gonna rip apart everything and everyone they’ve ever loved.”

“But—”

“But fucking _what_ , Sam? ‘But we have to bury Charlie first’? Fuck you, Sam. _Fuck you_.”

“Dean—” Sam starts, and Dean hasn’t heard his voice sound so broken since they were children. It’s devastating. And it only stokes the ugly wrath inside him higher.

“ _No_ !” he yells, turning around to face him. “Don’t you ‘Dean’ me, Sam, because for all your saying that I’m off the rails, this is on  _you_ ! What, you want me to stay and— and fucking  _burn the body_ of about the only friend I had left? She was our responsibility, Sam. She was  _family_ . And you— you and Cas— you went and you fucking got her  _murdered_ . There ain’t no ‘sorry’ big enough for that!”

Sam’s eyes are wide and he’s honest to God  _shaking_ , leaning on the door frame like he’ll collapse if he doesn’t hold on to something. “You think I  _wanted_ this? You think I ever—”

“ _I DON’T CARE!_ ” Dean roars, heart deafeningly loud in his ears, and the Mark threatening to burn clean through his skin. “I’ve buried too many friends. I’ve lost too much. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

_And I’m frightened of what will happen if I stay,_ he doesn’t add.

It feels like every bone inside him is hurting with the loss of Charlie, and still the Mark won’t stop throbbing, hungry, hungry, hungry. It’s so wrong, so deeply  _wrong,_ what is happening to him; the way the Mark won’t even let him mourn his friend without a part of him getting worked into a blood frenzy because of all the violence and death and  _needwantneedtokill_ and it’s— it’s obscene.  _He’s_ obscene, a taint to be removed from the room. He was barely worth Charlie’s affection when he was himself, and he certainly doesn’t deserve to be in her presence now — not after letting her down so completely — not with the curse on his arm delighting in the bloodshed before his eyes.

If Dean could destroy himself here and now, he would.

Instead, he’ll do the next best thing: he’ll take this unholy, sickening bloodlust away from the remnants of his broken family, and go seek out the monsters who did this. Dean may wish he was dead, but soon enough, the Stynes will be praying for the same thing.

Turning around, he makes for the door, fists clenched so tightly at his side that he’s pretty sure he’s drawing blood.  _Good_ , he thinks,  _I deserve it._

“Dean, please,” Sam calls out. It’s painfully obvious he’s doing his best to hold back a sob; there’s an edge of hysteria to his voice. Dean’s heart constricts once — once only — in sympathy, before the Mark overtakes it with a tidal wave of contempt and violent anger. “Don’t do this. If you go on a killing spree— if you take on this… this vendetta, you don’t know what’ll—”

“What’ll happen to me?” Dean’s voice is all cold, biting sarcasm, sounding almost alien to his own ears. “You mean like, I could turn into a monster? Someone who gets their friends killed? I’m sorry, I thought you had that covered for the time being.”

It’s cruel. It’s hurtful. Dean wants it to be, the Mark pulsing with dark satisfaction when no reply comes from Sam. He reaches the door and grabs the handle, hanging on it as if the coolness of the metal could somehow ground him, soothe him.

“Don’t come looking for me, Sam,” he throws over his shoulder. “You won’t like the consequences.”

Dean steps into the rain, leaving behind his brother, the body of his best friend, and the last shreds of his tattered humanity.

* * *

 

**Sam**

 

Sam spends the entire ride back to the abandoned factory on autopilot, trying not to think about Charlie’s body in the backseat.

Nausea has been cresting and falling inside him ever since they stepped into that motel bathroom to find her lying in the bathtub, covered in blood. He’s not entirely sure he’s going to make it to the factory without stopping to hurl by the side of the freeway— but he’s gonna try his damn best.

This is on him, he knows that much. He’s the one that asked Charlie to trust him— to help him, to help save Dean. And now Charlie’s gone, and Dean’s taken off, and they’re no closer to cracking the codex, and,  _and_ —

There’s a low scream rising inside Sam’s mind, like the whistle of a train coming closer and closer at terminal speed. He’s running on the tracks, and he doesn’t know what will happen when the train finally catches up to him.

_Cas_ , he tells himself over and over, robotically.  _You gotta get her to Cas_ .

He doesn’t know why he’s so sure it’s essential. Sure, Cas has brought people back before — Dean had told Sam how it had been with Bobby, back during the Apocalypse; how Cas had touched two fingers to his head and Bobby’s neck had unsnapped, the bones unshattered, his heart unstopped.

But then again, it’s been years since the Apocalypse, and Cas’s power has fallen and risen and fallen again. If Sam’s completely honest, most of the time Cas looks more human than not. It’s a good thing, for the most part: it makes Cas warmer, softer around the edges. But as far as giving life back goes, Sam doesn’t know if Cas’s current powers will cut it. Doesn’t know if anything will.

_There’s always Rowena_ , he tells himself.  _She’ll know a spell. And there are crossroads demons— we’ve done it before— I’m gonna fix it_ , Sam thinks desperately, his brain a whirlwind of guilt and despair and dizziness.

_I’m going to fix this._

* * *

In the end, he makes it, but only by a small margin. He gets out of the car and before he can even think about looking at the backseat — at the motionless shape of his friend wrapped in bloody blankets — he’s throwing up on the asphalt, his stomach churning with bile.

_This wasn’t supposed to happen_ , he tells himself, misery wringing his guts violently;  _it was never supposed to happen._

He doesn’t know how long it is before he pulls himself together, only that there is a wetness on his cheeks. He absently wipes at it, blinks a few times to clear his vision. Then, he gets Charlie’s body out of the car.

Walking into the factory, he finds Rowena chained at the table, perusing the codex distractedly, and Castiel pacing agitatedly back and forth.

Cas turns eagerly when he hears Sam enter, but as soon as he sees the shape in Sam’s arms, his face drains of all color.

“Who’s that?” he asks flatly, eyes schooled on Sam’s face.

“Charlie,” Sam hears himself reply, and all he can think is that no, it’s not Charlie, because Charlie had been alive and vibrant and optimistic, Charlie was generous and smart, but this— this is just a body. And Sam is to blame.

He lays the body on the table gently, as if it was still  _their_ Charlie after all, only asleep, curled up on the couch after a Star Trek marathon maybe.

“What happened?” Cas whispers. Sam can hear the vibration of rage in his voice, as well as grief. He should tell him, but he can’t say anything, he just can’t.

Behind them, Rowena clucks her tongue disapprovingly. “Poor Red. Trusting a Winchester, that’s what happened. Never ends well, I gather.”

“Shut  _up._ ” Sam wishes he had the strength — or the evidence — to refute her words, but he has neither. He turns to Cas, his eyes filling and spilling over. He doesn’t bother trying to control it: he knows he couldn’t. “Can you fix her?” he asks instead, his voice shaking as badly as his hands.

Castiel looks at him for a long moment, compassion making its way through the sadness. “Was it an angel kill?”

Sam shakes his head. “Human. There were— knives, I think. Just… there was a lot of—” He swallows, has to shut his eyes for a moment.

Cas licks his lips and nods, slowly. “Then it should be… I should be able to help.”

He makes his way to the table and gently, but efficiently, unwraps the sheets from around Charlie. Sam recoils at the sight of her face, whiter than the sheets, and stiller than he’s ever seen it.

Cas lays one hand on her forehead and the other at her midsection, closing his eyes. Before long, a faint glow starts emanating from them.

Sam hasn’t prayed since he was 26, since the Apocalypse happened and robbed him of his faith that anyone was listening to them; but he prays now, quietly and fervently, for this to work.

He’s shaken out of his reverie by Cas groaning softly. There’s sweat on his forehead, but his hands are glowing brighter than before, and for just a moment, Sam thinks he sees a hint of color return to Charlie’s face… and then Cas suddenly staggers backwards, gasping, shaking a little from exertion.

His back hits the wall just as Sam’s heart hits the bottom of his stomach—  _of course it didn’t work, of course it wouldn’t work, you taint everything you touch—_

— and then Charlie sits up sharply, gulping in air like she’s drowning, looking around wildly like a terrified animal, shaking and frantic and  _alive_ .

For a moment they’re all silent, awestruck; even Rowena has a shaken look on her face.

Suddenly, as if remembering something, Charlie curls in on herself protectively, trembling fingers going to lift her shirt and expose her pale stomach.  _She’s looking for the wounds,_ Sam realizes numbly, watching her trace the expanse unblemished skin in disbelief. “I’m okay,” she whispers, though it echoes in the quiet room. “I’m okay?”, she repeats then, louder, looking up at them wonderingly.

As if from underwater, Sam hears himself call out her name — or maybe it’s just a strangled sound — and the following moment he’s gathering her in his arms, hugging her carefully but tightly, relief making his knees weak and shaky.

“You’re alive. You’re  _alive_ , oh God, Charlie, I’m so sorry— I’m so sorry I got you into this mess.”

“Hey,” Charlie replies, patting his back a bit awkwardly, “it’s-- it's okay. We're cool. I wanted to save Dean just as much as you did.” She pulls back and stares at him earnestly, probably to make sure he takes her words to heart. “All of this was my decision too. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Anyway, I’m alive now, aren’t I? For which I believe I have to thank…”

She turns towards Cas, who’s still looking pale and fatigued but is standing straight now, and directs a tired, fond smile at Charlie.

She motions him to come in for hug, which he does, albeit a bit stiffly, still getting used — Sam assumes — to the  _humanness_ of it all. Charlie hugs Cas for a few moments, eyes closed, then murmurs a  _thank you_ into his ear, low but vibrant with feeling.

And that’s when something unexpected happens. After releasing Cas, and gingerly sliding off the table, Charlie looks at both of them warily, with a strange, serious look to her face.

“We gotta talk,” she says.

For a moment, her words don’t even compute, absurdly mundane in the face of having just brought Charlie back from the dead.

It’s been a very long, very difficult night, and Sam feels as if he’s on the edge of breaking down. A moment later, Cas’s hand is on his shoulder, an unobtrusive but comforting presence.

“Go on, Charlie,” Cas says.

“Um, okay. Right, so— where are you guys standing on the whole ‘reopening Heaven’ issue?”

Cas frowns. “Hannah is taking care of matters in Heaven now. She has for a while.”

Charlie nods. “Yeah, but— Metatron’s spell. Has it actually ever been reversed?”

Sam rubs his forehead with one hand. “Not that I know of. Cas?”

“I would have assumed the doors had been reopened, but I can’t say for sure. Why, what do you know?”

“Oh, I know  _a lot,”_ Charlie breathes out; then she bites her lip, looking as if she’s preparing to drop a bombshell. “I saw Kevin.”

“The Prophet?,” Castiel asks at the same time that Sam exclaims “ _Kevin?”._

Charlie nods, solemn. “Yeah. Kind of a bummer we never got to meet topside, but that’s a grievance for another day.” She pauses. “Guys,  _seriously_ . Things are… messed up on the other side of the Veil.”

Sam cringes. “How messed up are we talking?”

“Well, first of all, there’s a zillion souls stuck there, unable to gain passage to Heaven. I would know. I felt it as well. It was like my consciousness knew it had to be somewhere else, but I couldn’t move my feet. Like in a bad dream, you know?”

Sam nods. “Go on.”

“Most of them just sit around and are, you know, pretty depressed. But some of them can’t take it, the… _immobility_ , the not knowing. Being stuck halfway. So they just… go insane.” She shudders minutely. “You should’ve heard the wailing over there. Not pretty. Not pretty at _all._ Some of those spirits are in serious pain… and some are taking it to the next level.”

 “Becoming vengeful spirits, you mean?” Castiel asks, frowning.

Charlie nods. “Yeah. They just get angrier, and more desperate, and  _angrier,_ until eventually they gather so much strength that they’re able to burst through the Veil; but they can’t get to Heaven, so they just barrel back down to Earth. I wouldn’t be surprised if there had been a freak spike in hauntings lately.”

“Great,” Sam nods, rubbing his temples. “Just great.”

Charlie bites her lip again. “There’s worse.”

Castiel frowns. “Worse than an enormous number of souls in immense pain going insane and turning violent?”

“Well…” Charlie starts, shoulders drooping a little. “It’s the reapers. See, Heaven might be closed for business, but Hell sure isn’t. According to Kevin, a bunch of rogue reapers are under contract with Hell to get more souls down there; raise the quotas.”

Castiel draws himself up to his full height, jaw going tense. “You mean—”

Charlie nods. “It’s blitzkrieg, man. They come through the Veil and grab the weakest of the souls, and there’s no one who can fight back. Some of the souls — the ones who have been there the longest — are so desperate or so crazed that they go willingly.”

“The demons are going to pay for this.” Castiel’s expression is one of profound disgust and anger. Sam, on the other hand, has a pinched look on his face, one of self-deprecation.

“None of this would have happened if I’d just closed the doors of Hell like I was supposed to. If I’d done my job— if I hadn’t listened to Dean…”

“Hey now.” Charlie reaches forward, gives his arm a sympathetic squeeze. “Stop that. I’m not gonna let you blame yourself for not committing suicide, that’s crazy.”

“Charlie’s right,” Castiel says gently. “You and Dean chose each other. Chose family. That’s not a despicable action at all. It has saved the world before.”

“Yeah,” Sam exhales, bitter. “And how well has that worked out for us? Because from where I’m standing, no Hell sounds like a pretty good thing to die for. And there would have been no Abaddon, and Dean wouldn’t have the Mark of Cain. Still wanna tell me how moving it was that Dean convinced me not to punch my ticket?”

Castiel and Charlie are silent at that, looking awkwardly at each other, at Sam, without making eye contact.

“Look,” Charlie says finally. “I don’t know if you guys did the right thing or not. All I know is— you’re my family and I love you and I’m glad you’re still kicking, okay?”

That seems to calm Sam down a little bit, smooth the lines on his forehead marginally. “Thanks, Charlie.” She steps closer and hugs him one-armed, going up on her tiptoes to do so. Castiel smiles a little at the display.

“Charlie is right, Sam, but on more than this account. We need to do something about restoring order to the Veil.”

“I know,” Sam nods. “Charlie— what did Kevin say? Did he have any advice to offer, something he might remember from the tablets?”

“He had a lot of thoughts,” Charlie says, hesitatingly, “but no definite answers. I can try and write down what I remember before it gets away from me.”

“Excellent,” Castiel states, “but first we have something crucial to do.”

“What’s that?” Charlie asks, but Sam’s eyes have already lit up with understanding.

“We’ve gotta let Dean know you’re not dead.”

“I’ll say,” Charlie chuckles, but it dies abruptly on her lips. “Wait— did he take it badly? I mean I’d hope he did, but like, what levels of overreaction are we talking here?”

“Murder levels,” Sam mutters. “He went after the Stynes, and if we don’t hurry—”

“We’re hurrying.” Cas grabs his car keys from the nearby table.

“Wait,” Sam calls out. “Don’t you need—”

“You stay here with Charlie and Rowena. We still need to cure Dean of the Mark, and Charlie’s decryption of the codex is our best chance,” he says urgently, one hand already on the door handle. “I’m gonna go find Dean.”

“Be careful,” Sam says quietly. He doesn’t need to specify he means that as much for Cas’s sake as for Dean’s.

“I will,” Cas assures him. “I’ll bring him home.”

In the solemn silence that follows that declaration, Sam’s phone chimes.

“Oh, yeah,” Charlie says, brightly. “Did I mention I cracked the codex?”

* * *

 

**Castiel**

It takes Castiel a while to find Dean. He follows Dean’s trail to Louisiana, but he gets there too late. By the time he gets to the Styne mansion, all he finds is a dozen of dead bodies littering the grounds, each one killed in a different way, all of them efficient.

An acid feeling of dread churns inside his stomach. He feels no grief over the Stynes’ fate — even aside from murdering Charlie, he can tell the world is a much better place without them in it — but this doesn’t bode well for Dean’s state. This isn’t like him, has never been like him, this cold-blooded taking of human lives.

Castiel checks the GPS, but it only tells him what he already knows: Dean is heading home.

As soon as Castiel steps through the door of the bunker he hears the shot ring out, echoing across the empty halls, and a cold feeling settles along his spine.

He tears through the place following the sound of the gunshot. A quick glance is enough to assess the state of disarray of the place, things piled together haphazardly, books and objects thrown carelessly to the floor, the Winchesters’ few possessions scattered about the rooms. The piles were obviously meant to be burnt, and the idea of an intruder breaking in to destroy his friends’ only home fills Castiel with protective fury. He steels himself for a fight, on the admittedly unlikely chance Dean hasn’t managed to take out the attackers on his own.

All his protectiveness melts into dismay and sorrow when he comes across the scene in the war room: Dean covered in blood, his hand clenched around a still-smoking gun, three bodies lying on the floor around him as if in a tragic play. The one lying at Dean’s feet can’t be more than 17 years old, and Castiel feels icy disappointment fill him.

“ _Dean._ What have you done?”

Dean turns around slowly, the front of his shirt messy with gore, and stares at him blankly, emptily.

Castiel kneels by the body, laying his palm on it, closing his eyes in an attempt to re-ignite the latent spark of life in the boy, but the surge of power he’d beckoned never comes to his hand.

He’s too weak. Whatever power he has now, bringing Charlie back from the dead had used it up, his batteries almost completely drained. He feels fear and anger stab through him, suddenly awash with the knowledge that whatever Metatron had done to his grace for the spell, it had cracked it for good. He will never be the same Castiel again; there will be no power of the seraphim at his command.

_It doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself, though it does matter. If a choice had to be made, he would have chosen Charlie in a heartbeat— not only because she was his friend, but because she was dear to the Winchesters; the Stynes boy, he’s the collateral damage to his family’s darkness. But it still leaves him feeling sour and aching inside, the waste of an innocent life for no greater purpose. And most of all, he feels cold and dizzy with the certainty that this is a point of no return for Dean. Dean would never have condoned this before taking the Mark on. All that was pure and good and brave in him would have violently railed against the killing of a child; much less being the one to execute it.

If Castiel can’t bring him back from the brink now, the Dean they know might well slip out of their reach forever. Castiel can’t allow that. He will  _never_ allow that.

He looks up at Dean, at the blood on his face and hands, at his empty eyes.  _It has been worse than this,_ he tells himself fiercely.  _Much worse._ Twice, he has seen Dean’s soul blackened and twisted by hellfire; twice he has brought him back from the pit.

To borrow from Dean’s own vocabulary, Castiel will be damned if he lets it happen again.

* * *

**Dean**

 

“You killed him.”

Cas’s voice is an unwelcome reminder breaking through the red haze of bloodlust; a fog siren sounding with the finality and mournfulness of church bells. He stares on coolly, refusing to let it get to him, but it’s hard when he can see the dismay in Cas’s blue eyes from all the way over here.

“I took down a monster. Because that’s what I do. And I’ll continue to do that, until…”

He shrugs, but the movement is calculated, not casual at all. He tries to ignore the blood pounding in his ears, the Mark seething with rage at the mere sight of Cas.

It’s the first Dean has seen him in weeks, and certainly since the whole ugly mess with Charlie went down. Dean feels angry, betrayed, but it’s more than that too— Cas has his grace back, and the Mark recognizes that, recoils from even being in the same room with a power that pure.

“Until you  _become_ the monster,” Cas finishes for him, standing to face him.

It stings— probably more than it should, considering Dean is all too aware of what he’s turning into. He pushes it down, tries to seem unaffected, to keep his blank, empty mask from cracking and slipping. He schools his voice into a flat drawl.

“You can leave now, Cas.”

But it’s not that easy, because nothing ever is. Instead of storming off in a huff, like he always did when he had wings, Cas plants his feet down, staring at him steadily.

“No. I can’t. Because I’m your friend.”

That rankles Dean, considering his newfound knowledge of just how assiduously Sam and Cas had worked behind his back— and what it had led to. Charlie’s lifeless body flashes in front of his eyes again.

“Really. Let me ask you something. You screw over _all_ your friends?” He steps closer to Cas, his voice rising without him meaning for it to, all illusion of composure gone. “I guess I should have known. It’s not like you’ve never done it before.”

He infuses the words with venom, with all the reminders of four years ago, of Cas trapped in a circle of holy oil, working with Crowley and lying to Dean’s face about it. He can see it hits home from in the flash of hurt and shame in Cas’s eyes. He covers it up with anger, meeting Dean halfway, his steps purposeful.

“Sam and I were trying to  _cure_ you. We still are.”

Dean snorts derisively. “Like hell.”

“We can read the book now,” Cas adds, eagerly, and he opens his mouth as if to say something else, but Dean cuts him off, his voice a savage snarl.

“Oh, so what? So you  _might_ find a spell that  _might_ take this crap off my arm? Well, even if you do, what’s it gonna cost? ‘Cause magic like that does  _not_ come free. No, it comes with a price that you pay in blood.” He of all people knows this to be true. He’s never managed to achieve anything good that he didn’t have to pay for a hundredfold. That’s how life works. That’s how _his_ life works. He shakes his head. “So thanks, but I’m good.”

He turns his back on Cas, only to find him blocking his path again the next moment, his eyes burning with resolve.

“No, you’re not. Maybe you could fight the Mark for years. Maybe centuries, like Cain did. But you cannot fight it forever. And when you finally turn — and you  _will_ turn — Sam, everyone you know, everyone you love… they could be long dead. Everyone except me. I’m the one who will have to watch you murder the world.”

It sounds like a threat or a warning; it sounds like a prophecy. But even as Dean’s bones go cold with it, he feels a bitter laugh bubble up inside his throat.

“Please. Like you’d ever stick around that long. I know you, Cas. I know exactly how  _reliable_ you are. All you’re good for is fucking off to parts unknown.”

It’s petty, and meant to hurt, and Dean hates himself just that little bit more for relishing the wounded expression that colors Cas’s face.

_Let him hurt_ , he tells himself.  _It’s not like he’s never hurt you before_ .

“You’re free not to believe it, Dean,” Cas says, his voice only barely labored. “But if there’s even a small chance we can save you, I won’t let you walk out of this room.”

“Oh,” Dean breathes, low and dangerous, “You think you have a choice.” He makes to walk around him, but Cas sidesteps him again, stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“I think the Mark is changing you.”

“You’re wrong,” Dean says, and means it. Because the Mark is only the cherry on top of the horror show that has been his life; the Mark is merely an enabler. All his life, Dean’s been poison to those around him. All his life, he has done nothing but hurt people and taint things. The Mark isn’t changing him. It’s exposing him for what he truly is. Surely Cas has to know that, because Cas has seen it firsthand, the ugliness and the evil inside Dean’s soul, the darkness nestled there as he tortured souls on Alastair’s table.

“Am I? Cause the Dean Winchester  _I_ know, would never have murdered that kid.”

In that moment, Dean hates him more than ever. It’s exhausting, this trust Cas claims to have in him; it’s impossible to live up to. Dean is used to being a disappointment to his father; a disappointment to Sam. Somehow, being a disappointment to Cas seems intolerable. A dark agitation rises inside him, nestling behind his eyes, and it makes him try to shove past Cas again, to get out of the bunker and as far away as possible, before he destroys whatever is left of them.

He’s stopped again by Cas’s hand on his shoulder, and he sees red, the room becoming blurred and unfocused as a film of anger and frustration clouds his eyes.

“ _Dean._ I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

_Except for when you did. Except for when you lied. Except for when you left. Except for when you beat me half to death in a godforsaken crypt. Except for when you look at me like I mean something, and never stick around to prove it._

The pounding of Dean’s heart is a war drum inside his ears.

“I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem,” Dean growls, and then he swings.

His fist hits Cas’s jaw with a resounding  _crack_ , and the Mark instantly delights in it, working itself into a frenzy, pulsing away at his veins,  _moremoremore._

His next hit lands square in the middle of Cas’s face, with a wet crunching noise that makes Dean’s stomach lurch sickly. Cas looks at him from under his eyelashes, bent in half with pain, blood trickling down his nose, a black bruise beginning to form below his eye, and an electric jolt goes through Dean.

_This isn’t right_ , he thinks, confusion warring with the violent excitement the Mark is stoking inside his gut.  _He’s an angel. He has his grace back now. I shouldn’t be able to hurt him_ . He blinks once, to clear his head.

_You hurt Gadreel_ , an insidious voice whispers inside his head.  _Fucked him up real bad. Angels can’t stop you now, none of them can._

Unbidden, his brain supplies him with old images, blurred at the edges but all-too-vivid in the middle, the picture sharp with the memory of pain. A dark alley, years ago; Cas all righteous fury and retribution, kicking him in the chest so hard he flew into a fence, his ribs shattering painfully on the way there. And later, kneeling down on a dusty cold floor, hands raised in supplication, not for Cas to stop hurting him but for Cas to get better, barely able to see for the blood trickling into his eyes.

It all feeds into the dark energy pooling into his forearm, and he takes another swing, this time making Cas topple to the floor.

“Fight back,” he yells, his stomach clenching and unclenching dizzily.

“Dean,” Cas says, and his voice is so  _calm_ , so goddamn calm and unafraid, that it makes Dean all the angrier.

“Fight  _back_ , you goddamn bastard!!”

But Cas doesn’t, and Dean almost kicks him where he’s lying— except something stops him, a stab of pain and regret sharp enough to contrast even the Mark. He shakes himself, grabbing a fistful of Cas’s trenchcoat and forcibly dragging him off the floor and towards the desk.

“This is for lying to me,” he hisses, slamming Cas bodily against it. “This is for going behind my back  _again._ ” He slams Cas against the desk again, his head bouncing off it sickly in the recoil, because Cas is keeping his body completely limp, like a fucking rag doll, not fighting back, not even  _trying_ to resist. The Mark thrills in it, even as a wave of nausea threatens to take over Dean.

“And this is for Charlie,” he growls, slamming Cas’s face into the desk again. That’s when Cas makes his very first attempt at resistance, and it’s not to hit Dean or shove him off; Cas merely struggles to turn his head, enough to look Dean in the eye.

His face is a mask of blood, but all Dean can read on it is deep, genuine pity.

“Charlie’s alive,” Cas chokes out, and the way he says it makes Dean’s resolve sway uncertainly— it’s not an attempt to soothe Dean or get him to stop beating on him; Cas’s voice is full of compassion, as he if he were sorry for keeping it from him this long, as if all he wanted was to bring Dean whatever peace of mind he can offer.

Dean’s heart stutters and trips; the Mark’s desire for violence and his own horror at seeing Cas like this battle for dominance, ultimately succumbing to a muted confusion. He doesn’t dare to believe it, because Charlie being alive would be a  _good_ thing, and good things can never happen to those around him. He is far too poisonous for that.

“You’re lying,” he says weakly. “I saw her dead.”

Cas puts a hand on Dean’s wrist — only now does Dean notice his fists are still balled tightly into Cas’s trenchcoat — but makes no move to shove it off; he just lets his hand rest there, soothing, comforting, and everything Dean does not deserve.

“Sam brought her to me, after. There was—” he coughs, a rivulet of blood trickling down the side of his mouth, “there was much to restore, but I was able to heal her wounds. She’s at the factory now, Dean, she’s still working on the Book. She decoded it. She wants to help you, Dean. We all do.”

The wave of relief, gratitude and shame that washes over Dean makes his knees go weak and unsteady. Clumsily, as if he were moving through tar, he lets go of Cas’s coat, stumbles back, swallowing hard.

“You saved her.”

“You were right to be angry. Sam and I are to blame for her getting hurt. But I tried to make amends for my mistakes.” Cas sits up, swaying lightly as he goes, squinting to see through his now-swollen left eye.

Suddenly, there’s a catch in Dean’s throat.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” he chokes out, all too aware of the blood caked over his knuckles.

“You know why,” Cas replies. His voice is so gentle, it’s all Dean can do not to break down then and there. The Mark is still clamoring, but muted, and he forces it down, struggles to think clearly.

“Don’t,” he warns, not sure what exactly he’s forbidding Cas to do, just that he can’t handle it, whatever it is, this thing swelling between them, always present, never acknowledged.

He especially can’t handle it now, with Cas’s blood on his hands.

That doesn’t stop Castiel from getting up off the desk, and slowly but determinedly picking his way over to Dean amidst the debris.

“Stay back,” Dean tries again, but now his voice is shaking, and Castiel beelines for him, as fearless and swift as divine justice; as divine mercy, maybe, if Dean thought he deserved that.

A flash of recollection bowls him over — not exactly a memory, but something embedded in a place deeper than his mind — of Cas doing the same thing so very long ago, in a dark, dank place reeking of sulfur and fear. Dean had been afraid then, too; had warned Castiel not to approach then, too. But Cas had burned white through the layers of soot and filth, closer and closer, until he could grip Dean’s shoulder and raise him from the pit.

Dean’s shoulder burns now, as well, tingling with the phantom itch of a fiery handprint. His skin yearns for Cas’s touch, but he knows he’s less worthy of it now than he ever was. There’s no salvation in store for him this time. You only get so many second chances, and Dean’s had many more than he ever deserved.

None of that seems to matter to Cas, though.

“Dean”, he says, quiet voice carrying over the debris and destruction between them. “I forgive you.”

Dean shakes his head, nauseous.  _It’s not that easy. It shouldn’t be that easy._

He steps back and trips onto a pile of books, forcing him to lean into the side of the other desk to stay upright. Disoriented, he looks for an escape route, any way out, but he finds none, and suddenly Cas is in front of him, wiping the blood from his face on his trenchcoat sleeve. There’s nothing but pity and forgiveness in his eyes, and Dean can’t bear it, has to look away, his own eyes feeling hot and itchy with the weight of his guilt.

When he looks back up, Cas’s face is slowly healing under his gaze, the bruises disappearing under the dry blood, the broken skin stitching itself back together.

“It’s okay. Dean, it’s all right.”

Dean shakes his head, frantic, because nothing is  _all right_ , nothing will ever be right again, not when he knows how Castiel looks with his bones broken, not when Dean is the one who smashed them in.

But Cas keeps repeating the words —  _it’s all fine, Dean, it’s okay_ — and finally, with a jolt of surprise, Dean realizes Cas is trying to soothe him because Dean is crying, hot, bitter tears streaking their way through the dried red stains on his face.

He folds to the floor, crumpling on himself like a dead leaf, and Cas follows him down, kneeling beside him; he has one hand on Dean’s shoulder, where the phantom of his handprint stings like a fresh burn.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Dean whispers over and over, aware he sounds like a broken record, but unable to say anything else. He says it until his voice has run ragged, until all that comes out of him are low, wounded sounds, and his forehead is resting on Castiel’s shoulder, a supplicant begging for absolution.

Cas lays his free hand on the back of Dean’s hand, the touch hesitant, more tender than it has any reason to be.

“Please let us help you, Dean.  _Please._ ”

Dean takes in the scent of Cas, clinging to his trenchcoat like the smell of thunder after a storm. It’s ozone and lightning and damp, mown grass. It grounds him, and he breathes in deeply once, twice.

“No one can help me,” he replies, his voice still raw. He can’t bring himself to use Castiel’s name. He feels like it doesn’t belong in his mouth; not after what he has done.

“At least let us try,” Cas pleads. “You can’t do this alone. You shouldn’t have to.”

“Alone is the only way,” Dean says, wearily. He wishes he could fall asleep and wake up to discover this has all been a nightmare. He wishes he could die here, in Cas’s arms; disappear into oblivion and never return.

That’s when it strikes him: a pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel, the only door he has left untried.

“The only way you can help me right now,” he says, disentangling himself from Cas, his every fiber mourning the loss of closeness, “is by letting me go.”

“Go where?” Cas is instantly on his feet, alert and wary.

Dean forces himself to fold his lips into a tiny smile. “There’s someone I have to see. Maybe they can help. I have to try. I have to try whatever I can,” he explains, spreading his hands. It’s a tired gesture; it’s almost a surrender.

“Will you come and see us afterwards?”, Cas asks, studying him carefully. “At the factory?”

“Yes,” Dean lies. He has no idea if he’ll be able to go anywhere after what he’s about to do. His next words, however, are brimming with sincerity.

“Cas… thanks for Charlie. I know it’s not enough. I know I don’t deserve anything from you. But she did. She deserves the world. Just… thank you.”

Cas nods, serious. “We’ll be waiting for you, Dean.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that; he can feel his face doing something complicated he has no control over. He nods once, finally, and turns away, leaves the bunker without looking back.

Cas will take care of the bodies — or he won’t, it’s all the same to Dean. He has something else to take care of, if it’s the last thing he does.

He both hopes and fears that it will be.

* * *

 

The abandoned Mexican restaurant is scattered with ingredients all over. Some of them are cooking supplies, some are supplies for a spell. It’s a weird combination, but Dean doesn’t question these things much anymore.

He works quietly and quickly, the motions practiced and coming with ease. It’s nice, he thinks, to be making something; to be creating instead of destroying. He scrubs his hands absently, bothered by the phantom itch of the blood he washed away.

The Stynes are dead, yes, but Dean’s not that sure he made it out alive, either. Not all of him. Not the parts that matter.

He tries to put the thought at rest and focus only on the work. He likes cooking; he’s good at it. He’s always been good at using his hands, even though it was never really acknowledged.

He eyes the beer on the counter, but decides to leave it be. He’s not thirsty, and, weirdly, he’s calm enough that he doesn’t even need alcohol. Pretty soon, he won’t need it ever again.

* * *

Despite the fact that he has talked to Death before, Dean will never get used to the way it chills every bone in his body. Death’s physical form is neither big nor imposing, but he still fills the room with something huge and yawning and hungry.

Dean tries not to let it get to him, tries to put conviction in his voice, to make his words matter. This is his last shot.

“I know you know what this is. I know you know what it can do.”

He’s pointing at the Mark of Cain on his arm, Death’s gaze taking it in calmly, his face unimpressed.

“I’ve tried to fight it. I’ve tried to beat it on my own, and I— I can’t.”

Cas’s bruised, bloodied face flashes in front of his eyes, making the room spin sickly around him.

“I got no moves left. Except you.”

And in that moment, Dean means it, means it more than possibly anything else he’s ever said. He’s done. He’s ready to go, ready to die. That fact brings with it such a staggering wave of calm, that it comes as a cold burst of shock when Death calmly looks at him and says  _I won’t kill you, Dean._

Dean’s reeling so hard from it, he finds himself struggling to keep up with Death as he says that no, he won’t get rid of the Mark, either. It’s hard to believe what he’s hearing: that the Mark is  _necessary,_ that it’s a lock and key to something more terrible than even Hell.

“I could remove the Mark— but  _only_ if you will share it with another. To ensure the lock remains unbroken, and the Darkness remains banned.”

“I’m not doing that,” Dean hears himself reply, voice quiet and sure. “Not to anyone.”

And just like that, it’s over. His last chance had dissipated before his eyes like so much smoke, and he feels himself choking on it.

“No,” Death says calmly, giving him an appraising look. “I didn’t think so. Goodbye, Dean. I won’t be seeing you anytime soon, I expect.”

* * *

For the longest time after Death leaves, Dean sits alone in the abandoned restaurant, immobile and defeated.

Death had been his last hope — an irony made even more cruel by the fact that his  _own_ death is an impossibility. He feels desperation rising up his throat even as he feels the weight of lead sinking into his stomach. He’s doomed to linger on, the Mark a sick plague on his arm, a stain infecting everything around him, until—

_Until what?_ , a cold voice in his head whispers. Until he is finally fed up enough to off himself with the First Blade and condemn the world to eternal darkness? Until he passes the Mark on to some other poor, unsuspecting schmuck?

Until he murders the whole world?

Those words still ring in his ears in Castiel’s voice, and scorching shame overtakes him once again at the thought of their last meeting. How could he have done that? To  _Cas_ , of all people?

That’s perhaps one of the hardest things about this dark, ugly mess: seeing how much he’s hurting Cas and Sam. He can all but see his brother’s face in his mind’s eye, perpetually worried, looking older than his years. He swallows past the acrid taste of anxiety and guilt in his throat.

_I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Sammy._

Suddenly, Sam’s worried face shifts into a memory, one forever burned in Dean’s mind: Sam, sick and feverish, his eyes burning with delirium and purpose as he stands in a dimly-lit hotel hallway. He can hear Sam’s voice perfectly, as if he was standing in front of him right now.

_“These trials… they’re purifying me.”_

Just like that, it all falls into place. The solution to Dean’s problem — to  _all_ their problems. It’s the only way; it’s the way it should have been from the start. He can see now, as more and more details of the plan take shape in his mind, that he’s been a goddamn fool all along; but that all stops right now.

He’s gonna finish what he’d started, and go out with a bang doing it, too.

Slowly, he pulls his cellphone out of his jacket, staring at it for a long moment. The hardest part, he thinks, will be this: convincing Sam and Cas to get on board with his plan. Then again, they don’t have a choice. Dean will make sure they see that.

With a deep breath, he dials Sam’s number, his heart going a mile an hour.

“Yes?” Sam replies immediately. From the sound of him, he’s not in much better shape than Dean. Dean is acutely aware of the things he’d said to Sam on their last meeting, but that doesn’t matter now,  _can’t_ matter; he doesn’t have the luxury of letting it.

“Sammy,” he says, a little hoarse, “I’m gonna need a ride.”

* * *

 

It doesn’t take Sam long to arrive. As Dean suspected, he had already found the motel room, and the car keys Dean had left for him. No matter where they stand, Sam is a damn good hunter, and that’s something Dean can count on.

The Impala pulls up to the abandoned restaurant with a low rumble, headlights switching off as Sam climbs out of the car, relieved and wary at the same time. Although Dean can’t see it, he can tell from Sam’s posture that his gun is tucked away into the waistband of his pants, ready in case of need.

A damn good hunter, Dean thinks again, a small jab of pride going through him. He doesn’t think other people rejoice in their siblings’ readiness to shoot someone, but it doesn’t matter. They’re not like other people. Sometimes Dean thinks – Bobby’s voice ringing in his head – that they’re not people at all.

“Hiya, Sammy,” he says, lifting a hand, the lightness of it completely out of place.

“Hey,” Sam replies, a bit more of the wariness melting off his face. He’s studying him, Dean thinks. Trying to figure out if Dean’s just done something stupid, or something awful. He would be right on both accounts.

Suddenly, urgency tenses Sam, and he closes the distance between them with two quick steps.

“Dean,” he blurts out, stumbling over himself a bit, “Charlie—“

“I know.” Dean cuts him off, nodding. “Cas told me.”

“Oh,” Sam nods as well, the tension crumbling slowly from his shoulders. “Okay. Good.”

 _No,_ Dean thinks, his mind full of Cas’s voice and Cas’s eyes and Cas’s blood. _Not good at all._

Out loud, he says: “Listen, Sammy, the things I told you—“

“It’s alright,” Sam hurries to say. “I know that wasn’t you. We’re good.”

It’s hasty and not quite sincere, and for a strange, piercing moment, Dean misses the old Sam, the curious teenager – and later, before the apocalypse – who was always trying to get Dean to open up about his damn feelings.

It had been maddeningly frustrating. Now, Dean finds it hurts a little to look at this Sam – so tired, so grown-up, so haunted and silent. _Me,_ Dean thinks. _He’s become more like me. And it’s my fault for even dragging him into this in the first place._

“No, we’re not good, and yes, it was me. But I was wrong,” he says dryly, before this honesty spell can wear off. “You were trying to help. You and Cas both.”

It’s impossible to stop himself from wincing at his own words. Every mention of Cas brings back a tsunami of guilt and misery. And now, there’s Sam, too, looking at him with that puppy dog face that really shouldn’t even work anymore on a man pushing 40.

“But since you were fucking terrible at it, I guess it’s good I came up with a solution myself,” he adds, trying for levity. It isn’t a joke though, not really.

“A solution?” Sam asks, ignoring the insult and perking up. “Really?”

Dean nods. “Really. Talk while we drive though. I could use some food.”

Sam eyes the shack critically, taking in the tex-mex décor. “I thought you ate here. What _were_ you doing?”

“Oh, you know,” Dean says, slipping into the driver’s seat of the Impala. “Same old. Prepared nachos, summoned Death. You coming?”

“Summoned—what the _hell,_ Dean? Are you—“ Sam is glaring at him, but the rest of his indignant squawk is lost when Dean rolls up the window.

This isn’t going to be an easy conversation _at all._

* * *

 

Several miles, four burgers and one difficult conversation later, Sam says, “Pull over,” so Dean does.

They remain in perfect stillness by the side of the road. Sam’s head is in his hands, his fingers digging into his eyes in that way that suggests he’s tired or angry or both. Dean stares at his hands where they lie in his lap, motionless. He’s glad for the reprieve. His hands have been doing a lot of things they shouldn’t have, lately.

“You can’t do this,” Sam says finally, quietly.

“I can, and I have to. How’s about that.”

“No,” Sam insists, stubbornly, like when he was four and trying to prove Santa could logically exist. “You don’t.”

Just like back then, Dean purses his lips and nods, gives a small shrug. “Fine. Give me an alternative. Any alternative. One that doesn’t involve unleashing primordial darkness and evil upon the world. Or me turning into a demon, or me killing everyone we love.”

Sam swallows. They’re silent for a while more.

“If you do this,” Sam says, “there’s no coming back for you.”

Dean knows. And Sam knows Dean knows, really; he’s just trying to find a loophole where none exist.

“I can’t let you, Dean. I can’t, okay?” Sam bursts out when Dean doesn’t reply. “Maybe you can pull this off, but I can’t let you do this, I can’t let you just sacrifice yourself. I won’t.”

Dean waits a beat, clears his throat, and tries to mold his voice into something mild, to cut all accusation out of it and replace it with reason. “That isn’t what you said before.”

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean cuts him off, “ _You_ said that if you had to choose between saving me and saving the world, like I did in that church, you would have made a different call. The right call.”

Sam shakes his head, his eyes wild with shame and regret, but Dean isn’t going to let this happen, isn’t going to let them go around in circles yet again.

“I’m saying you were _right_ , Sammy. Even though it hurt to hear it— you were right. It can’t be you and me against the world, if there’s no world left to save, after all.”

The words hit him as he says them, as if perhaps he needed to hear them just as much as Sam. He looks over to the passenger’s spot, and Sam is pale, sickly-looking, unable to look up. His hands shake minutely.

“Look, Sammy,” Dean says, putting a careful hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You were going to sacrifice yourself in that church, for the greater good; and I should have let you. It was the right thing. Would have spared us all a lot of grief. It sucks, but it’s true. Now, if I could go back… I don’t know. I don’t know if I would choose differently, Sam. Because God help me, but it’s true— I don’t have that in me. But you’re stronger than I am. No, you are—“ he lifts his other hand to stop Sam’s protest, “—so I need you to be strong now. I need you to let me do this. For all of our goods. Can you do that?”

Dean can feel the heartbreak radiate off of Sam in waves and it breaks his heart in turn, because God, he _knows._ He knows what it feels like, to watch your brother — your only family, your _person_ — sacrifice themselves for the Good Fight. He’s lived it. He’s lived it for one year, every day after watching Sam jump into the Pit, and it had hurt like hell all of the time. But he had still done it, because it had to be done.

He doesn’t think he could bear to do it again— no, he knows he couldn’t— but that doesn’t change the essence of it, how necessary it is. He knows Sam understands this, too.

Finally, Sam looks up, slowly, as if blinking himself out of a daze. His eyes are red-rimmed and lost in his pale face, but the line of his mouth is firm. He nods.

“First of all,” he says, and they both pretend not to hear the way his voice breaks, “we need to tell Cas the spell is off.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Castiel**

 

Castiel has been wearing a groove into the factory floor ever since getting Sam’s phone call.

“Relax, Feathers, you’re making me dizzy,” Rowena quips from her graceful perch on the table.

“Shut up,” Castiel says, dryly. ”Your input was only relevant with regards to the spell, and the spell is off.”

“Which I still think is a mistake, by the way. I thought you wanted to save your precious Dean Winchester.”

Castiel grits his teeth. His head is pounding. When did he become so human that headaches started being a problem?

“Sam said they’ve found another way.”

Rowena scoffs. “There _is_ no other way.”

“Um, not to interfere with your verbal sparring match,” Charlie pipes up, fingers drumming nervously on the table, “but what _is_ this other way Sam says they’ve found?”

Castiel hesitates, uncomfortably aware of Rowena’s keen gaze on him. “He wouldn’t say.”

Rowena tut-tuts, and Castiel has to force himself not to smite her just for that.

“The Winchester boys, keeping secrets? These really are the end times,” Charlie jokes, but it’s weak, her faltering smile not helping with the delivery.

It’s true, Castiel has to admit, that Sam and Dean are not much in the habit of being honest, but he can hardly judge, considering his past mistakes.

Not judging doesn’t mean he can’t be frustrated, though. He hates this, having to sit here with nothing to do, waiting for the brothers to return from wherever they currently are.

On a sudden decision, he spins around to face Rowena.

“Can you do a location spell?”

“ _Can_ I do one? Who do you take me for?” she exclaims, indignation dripping off her words.

“It would have to be an extremely powerful spell.”

“Luckily, I’m an extremely powerful witch.” Rowena’s voice is icy despite her smile.

“Good. I need you to—“

“ I never said I’d _do_ it. I just said I _could._ Let’s discuss remuneration first.”

Castiel strides over to her, pointing his angel blade at her throat.

“Of course. Find me this person, and I will let you live. Is that fitting remuneration?”

“You wouldn’t dare. You need me—“

“ _Needed_ you. For the spell. But that’s off.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I’m willing to take the chance.”

Rowena levels a glare of hatred at him, but her smile never betrays any trace of fear.

“And who am I finding, pray?”

Castiel sheaths his blade. “Whatever plan Sam and Dean think they have come up with, we’re going to need all the inside information we can. Charlie, did you manage to write down what Kevin told you about the tablets?”

“Everything I could remember,” she grimaces.

“Good. You might get to test that knowledge soon.” Castiel turns to Rowena again, his face hard.

“I want you to find Metatron.”

* * *

 

Rowena is, it would seem, extremely good at what she does.

Her location spell finds Metatron in an astonishingly quick time, and when it does, her mouth takes on a pleased quirk.

“Well, I’ve got him. But much good it’ll do ye.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asks, his voice flat. He’s tired, so tired of complications cropping up all the time.

Rowena scoffs at him. “Angel warding, dummy. The place where he’s holed up is chock-full of it. This bloke may be loathsome, but he’s not stupid.”

Castiel rubs his forehead. “Of course.”

Rowena lets a beat pass before adding, “Obviously, I could get rid of those. Come with you to help?” She holds up her chained wrists, in a somewhat dramatic _free me_ gesture.

“I don’t think so,” Castiel replies, dryly. After a moment’s hesitation, he turns to Charlie.

“How do you feel? Do you think you could give me a hand with this? You’d only have to break the angel warding. Sam and Dean have done it before—usually it’s enough to paint over them.”

Charlie looks a bit surprised, but immediately straightens her shoulders and nods. Her face is still pale, but determined. “I can do it. I mean, I’m up for it. Only...” she gestures to Rowena with her head. “Do you think it’s a good idea to leave her here? Alone?”

Castiel sighs.

“Alright,” he decides eventually, before turning to point at Rowena. “You’re coming. But the chains stay on.”

“You’re no fun, feathers.” The glimmer in Rowena’s eyes, however, betrays her excitement.

This is _not_ , Castiel decides, going to be a pleasant trip.

* * *

 

As it turns out, Metatron is living in an abandoned bookshop. Castiel thinks that it’s very like him, and immediately afterwards that it’s extremely pretentious— and so, very like him.

It isn’t, however, very practical: Castiel remembers well all the necessities of human bodies, and an abandoned store is not exactly convenient or comfortable.

Not that Metatron is going to be there for much longer, anyway.

“Can you see the warding?” Charlie asks.

Castiel shakes his head. “It must be on the inside, but I can feel it. Do you have a piece of paper?”

Charlie digs out an old coffee receipt, and Castiel draws a few sigils on it with the pen he’s taken to carrying around in his coat pocket.

“It’ll most likely be one of these. Just paint over them— a line or an X should do.”

She nods and starts to go, but Castiel holds her back with a gentle hand on her forearm. “Please be careful.”

He knows Dean and Sam would never forgive him if something happened to her, but more importantly, he would never be able to forgive himself. To know Charlie is to like her, to appreciate her and feel protective of her.

She nods again. “I can handle it. I’ll be in and out as fast as I can.”

Rowena rolls her eyes from the backseat of the car. “You know,” she calls through the rolled-down window, “this could all be avoided if you’d just send me in.”

“Stay put,” Castiel barks at her. He’s checked her chains three times, but he still wishes this endeavour would take as little time as possible, because carrying a prisoner around makes him nervous. He can’t allow her to escape, not when she might still be useful. Sam and Dean hadn’t exactly been thrilled when they’d heard of this plan on the phone, either.

 _At least I told them what my plan was,_ he thinks, then immediately chastises himself for the small pettiness.

He’s distracted from his musings when he hears a bang come from inside the bookshop, closely followed by a crash.

“ _Charlie_!” he yells, charging in the direction of the store front. The sigils aren’t completely gone — there must be one or two left, he can feel them lapping at his strength, trying to drain it — but it’s enough for him to burst through the doors, angel blade in hand.

What he finds inside is Metatron whimpering painfully on the ground, Charlie pinning him down with a knee to his throat and another pressing into his stomach.

“Douchebag tried to jump me with a gun,” she explains, nodding in the direction of a discarded firearm a couple feet away.

“Let me _up_ ,” Metatron demands in a strangled voice.

“I don’t think so,” Castiel and Charlie reply at the same time. Charlie shoots him a small smile, then her face turns stony. “You killed my best friend, you asshole.” She stabs her knee into his groin, causing him to howl pitifully.

“He’s alive now!”

“No thanks to you,” Castiel says through gritted teeth, retrieving the pair of handcuffs he’d brought and cuffing Metatron before grabbing him by the collar. Charlie gracefully gets off him so Castiel can not-so-gracefully pull him up.

“You’re coming with us,” he announces, “and so is the demon tablet.”

“Demon tablet? I don’t know where that is!” Metatron whines, in what must be the least credible lie ever. Castiel puts his blade to Metatron’s neck. Metatron’s beady, hateful eyes are brimming with fury, and Castiel can tell he’s calculating his chances of managing to wriggle out of Castiel’s grasp (they’re abysmal, but he’s calculating them anyway).

Charlie dusts herself off, picks up the discarded gun, and points it at him.

“The tablet,” she reinforces. Metatron sags a little, raising a shaky hand in the direction of the back storage room.

Castiel is starting to think the boys should bring her along more often, really.

* * *

 

It isn’t very long after they’ve returned to the factory, demon tablet in Charlie’s hands, Rowena and Metatron tied at opposite ends of the table, when Dean and Sam arrive.

Castiel can immediately sense he won’t like what they have to say.

There’s a storm cloud around them, Sam’s shoulders heavy and his face haggard, Dean’s jaw tight with determination even though his eyes are haunted. Even so, they manage some sort of normal reaction to seeing Metatron— eyebrows shooting up, Dean cracking a small smirk.

“Well, well,” he greets, “if it isn’t Captain Doucheface.” Then, turning towards Castiel: “Wanna explain all this, Cas?”

“Rowena tracked him down, and Charlie and I captured him.” Castiel can already feel the objection forming on Dean’s lips, so he ploughs right over it: “We thought it might help with the new plan.” He says this very pointedly — _the new plan_ — so as to remind Dean he’s yet to share the details (or the outline, really) with him.

Dean catches the barb and sighs, his shoulders curving a little with the same weight that sits on Sam’s. Castiel feels a little bad about it, but even more than that he’s overcome with sudden, blinding worry.

_What did you boys do this time?_

“Let’s talk outside, Cas. We’ll tell you everything.”

“Hey, who am I?” Charlie pipes up, stepping into view from where she was hidden behind Castiel. “The poor cousin?”

At her voice, Dean jerks like a live a wire.

“Charlie,” he chokes out, turning towards her voice. His voice is raw with feeling, relief and guilt warring on his face. Before she has the chance to reply, he’s stepping forward and enveloping her in a crushing hug, one hand cradling her head protectively. He breathes in, the sound shaky, like he’s trying to hold back tears. “I’m so sorry, kiddo. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Don’t,” she says. Castiel notices she’s hugging him back just as tightly. “It wasn’t your fault, Dean. I wanted to help. I still do. We’re gonna beat this thing.”

“Right.” Dean loosens his hold on her enough that he can look at her at arm’s length, and fixes her with a glare that very clearly says _you shouldn’t have gone along on the Metatron hunt_. It would be more convincing if his eyes weren’t shining wetly, or if he wasn’t blinking quite so fast. He nods, clearly trying to steel himself.

“Sammy, stay and watch the Double Trouble Team, won’t you?” he says, a bit too gruff to be casual.

Sam nods, slumping down into a chair by the table, exactly between Rowena and Metatron, and Castiel and Charlie follow Dean outside the factory. The air is chilly, and Dean’s breath fogs as he lets it out, seeming to look for the right words, then to give up when they don’t present themselves.

“So. Thanks to our old pal Death, you both know the original plan — taking the Mark off me with the spell — isn’t gonna work.”

Castiel nods— that much they had told him on the phone. “Because it would cause the Darkness to be released.”

“I still can’t believe you refer to Death as an ‘old pal’,” Charlie mutters.

“Maybe we can find a way around it,” Castiel offers.

“Yeah, maybe there’s something else in the book—“ Charlie starts to add, but is cut off by Dean.

“No one is gonna look in the damn book! Which, to be frank, how did that thing _not_ seem a terrible idea from the start? It’s called the _Book of the Damned,_ for crying out loud.”

Castiel sets his jaw, irritated. “What do you propose, then?”

Dean takes a deep breath.

“I’m gonna give the Mark to Crowley.”

A moment of stunned silence follows this statement.

“ _What?_ ” Charlie exclaims then, at roughly the same moment that Castiel barks “Are you out of your _mind_? Do you have any idea the kind of power that would bestow upon him?”

Dean lifts his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I know, Cas. I lived through it. I know exactly what kind of powers that gave me. And what they would do for someone like Crowley. But first of all, he doesn’t have the First Blade, because you hid it.” He points at Castiel as he says it. “And secondly, it doesn’t matter either way, because those powers won’t do him any good where I’m sending him.”

“What do you mean?” Charlie asks. Castiel’s gut feels frozen with foreboding.

There’s a small twitch in Dean’s jaw.

“I’m shutting down Hell. Forever. Son of a bitch is going down, and he’s _staying_ there.”

Castiel shakes his head. “That’s an untenable plan. You know the trials will kill you, and then you’ll just come back a demon again.”

“ _Aha_ ,” Dean says, lifting a finger. He obviously means to sound smug, but his grin is a little stretched around the edges. “But once I’ve passed the Mark on to someone else — and before I complete the last trial — you guys can do the spell on me _without_ freeing the darkness.”

Castiel looks at him in disbelief. How can Dean have thought this through so poorly?

“Then you’re fully human again, and once the trials kill you, instead of coming back with black eyes, you simply _stay dead._ ”

Dean just looks at him, and suddenly, in a horrible rush of clarity, Castiel understands. He understands everything— Dean’s reticence to share the plan over the phone, the frozen feeling of dread buried deep in Castiel’s grace.

The plan was always going to result in Dean dying. There was no other outcome, no other chance of victory. This is going to be the victory— Dean dead, and hell gone.

Castiel feels sick. “No,” he says, and finds himself unable to add anything to it, words getting stuck in his throat, bumping against a dam of anger and despair. Beside him, Charlie is shaking her head furiously, reaching forward to grab at Dean’s sleeve.

“You can’t,” she says, her voice frantic. “Dean, you can’t!”

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Dean says, and the acceptance in his voice is the worst blow of all, “but there’s no other way.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Castiel snaps, surprising even himself with how vicious it comes out. “This— _this_ is why I brought Metatron. There must be another way, and _we’re_ going to find it, no matter what idiotic plan _you’ve_ dreamed up to indulge your martyr complex.” It’s harsh and unfair, but Castiel doesn’t care about that right now, he cares about nothing but finding a way to keep Dean alive. Keep him safe. Keep him _there._

He storms back into the factory, immediately rounding on Sam.

“How could you go along with this? How could you not tell him it’s a terrible idea?”

“Cas…” Sam sounds tired, impossibly tired and sad. “I tried. I don’t want this. But it really might be the only way—“

“Be quiet,” Castiel says, his voice morphing into the commanding tone he would use when giving orders to his garrison. “Escort the witch. I’ll take Metatron. We’re going back to the bunker, and we’re going to question him. _I’m_ going to question him.”

* * *

 

They end up arriving at the bunker a few hours later, blindfolded prisoners in tow, Charlie holding on to the demon tablet carefully. If he were flattering himself, Castiel would think his attitude actually intimidated the Winchesters into doing as they were told; in truth, they simply must have thought it made sense to go back home. With Dean aware of Rowena working with — or for? — Sam, there was no reason to hide out in the old factory anymore.

Rowena and Metatron are immediately escorted to separate dungeons — “The last thing we want is those two getting in cahoots with each other,” Dean states — and Castiel, Sam and Dean follow Metatron into his as Charlie goes to settle down in one of the rooms.

Castiel had sworn to himself he’d never hurt other angels again if he could help it, but Metatron is currently human, and besides, if anyone ever deserved torture, it would be him. _Even if he didn’t,_ Castiel thinks to himself with brutal honesty, _it wouldn’t matter. Anything to save Dean._ The first hit he delivers makes Metatron’s head snap against his shoulder and ricochet, a muted sound of pain escaping him.

“Tell me what you know. Or instead of killing you, I will make sure to hurt you in all the places humans are most vulnerable, all while keeping you alive for as long as possible. Unless you _tell me how to save him._ ”

“My, my,” Metatron chuckles. “Ever more desperate, are we? I mean you were always gagging for this human, but now it’s just _pathetic_.”

Castiel’s next hit draws blood. It sprays out of Metatron’s nose and onto Castiel’s trenchcoat. He doesn’t care.

“Tell. Me. If there’s. Another. Way,” he growls, low into Metatron’s ear.

Metatron shakes his head a little, as if his vision were swimming and he needed to clear it. Which, Castiel considers, is probably the case, so he’s fairly surprised when Metatron just laughs again, the sound utterly mirthless.

“I told you at the start, but you people only hear what you want to hear, do you? _The river ends at the source,_ ” he says, leaning forward, glaring at Castiel with malicious satisfaction.

“Speak plainly,” Castiel says, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.

Metatron shakes his head with something between pity and disgust.

“The Mark is a curse. Lucifer is the one who bestowed it, at God’s command. The Mark belongs to Hell, just as Lucifer does. There it must return.” He pauses, as if considering something. “Or if we want to look at it poetically, I suppose, this entire giant mess began when your trained monkeys here,” he nods towards Sam and Dean, “failed to board up Hell. When they doomed the world because they just _had_ to put each other first. The way to fix that is to overcome their sick neediness for each other and actually make a meaningful sacrifice. Finish what they started. _The river ends at the source._ ”

Castiel swallows, the sound loud in his ears even over the pounding of his heart.

“I’m sorry, Castiel,” Metatron says, not sounding sorry at all, “but the monkeys have it right. It _is_ the only way. _”_

Castiel’s heart feels heavy and aching in his chest. He realizes that Dean must have shot Metatron a look, because Metatron’s turning to him and snapping “Oh, what? Surprised I know your little plan? I have _ears_ , you know? You and your _paramour_ here weren’t exactly keeping it quiet out there.”

Before either he or Dean can comment on Metatron’s uncomfortable choice of words, the door to the dungeon opens and Charlie comes in. “Tablet’s safe,” she tells them, then takes in their grim faces and adds softly: “Oh. I guess no plan B came up.” She sounds as crestfallen as they all must look. A long moment of silence goes by, only interrupted by Metatron snuffling through his damaged nose.

Then, finally, Charlie clucks her tongue and says: “Actually I came to ask about something, guys. Can we like, convene outside the dungeons for a hot minute?”

Castiel’s not sure why the following minute should be any different in temperature from the rest, but he follows with the others. Before he leaves, he shoots Metatron a last glare, hoping it conveys his message clearly enough.

_This isn’t the end of this. I will save him. You’ll see._

He doesn’t stop again to look at Metatron’s unpleasant smirk.

* * *

 

  
**Dean**

 

As it turns out, Charlie’s intervention has nothing to do with the matter at hand and everything to do with the tablet she’s just put away.

“Okay,” she starts, pacing the room and sounding jumpy as hell. “This is gonna sound crazy, but. When I touched the tablet — like, when I was holding it in both of my hands before I put it in the safe — it, like… _hummed_ at me. Kind of like speaking, but not really.”

Sam stares at her. “Charlie, are you saying the tablet _spoke_ to you?”

“Not _really_!” she repeats, increasingly nervous. “It was more like… when you hear a song on the radio that you _know_ you know the words to, but there’s too much static for you to make it out. Does that make sense?”

“Not a whole lot, but go on,” Dean encourages.

“I think it was communicating to me in some way. I could sense… _distress._ Like, _I_ was distressed, but it was coming from the tablet. Or, _through_ the tablet, because obviously a slab of stone can’t feel anything. I think…” she trails off, playing with a strand of red hair. “I think maybe I can sense what’s going on upstairs. Or— on the other side? Like…” she gestures, frustrated.

“Like it’s connecting you to the spiritual realm?” Sam supplies, helpful, but still looking perplexed. “That’s odd. None of us have ever had that happen. Not me or Dean at least. Cas?”

Cas looks distracted, but he seems to try his best to focus on their question.

“When I had the tablet,” he says, slowly, “it would communicate to me wordlessly what it wanted. I think it was tapped into my angel wiring, so to speak. I felt this weird… _ringing_ in my ears, and I knew I had to hide it, to keep it safe. I don’t know if that helps.”

“My ears were totally ringing too,” Charlie says, excitedly. “But it didn’t want me to do anything _to_ it, it was more like there was something it wanted me to understand. Something I need to take action about.”

There’s a long pause.

“Charlie,” says Sam eventually, “is it possible that… that you’re a prophet? Well— a prophetess?”

“No, it isn’t,” Cas cuts in, dryly. “If she was a prophet I would have known her name.”

“Right,” Sam concedes, “but the rules have changed. Metatron said he flipped a switch, didn’t he? That no more prophets would be named. Maybe whatever the power behind the tablets is — the same power that Kevin was tapped into — maybe it needs an outlet and now it’s found it through her?”

All heads swivel to face Charlie as the possibility hangs in the air, electric. “Guys, c’mon,” she says, trying for sensible and ending up with an edge of mild hysteria. “I’m not a prophet. Prophetess. I can’t be. I’ve never done anything psychic-y my entire life.”

Dean purses his lips. “What if meeting Kevin in the afterlife sorta… activated you? Like he sorta passed the weirdness baton on to you?”

“Is that even a thing?” Charlie sounds doubtful.

Dean shrugs. “Everything’s a thing, apparently.”

Charlie takes a deep breath. “I’ll have to look into it. Do some research. In the meantime, I think I should tell you what the tablet was upset about, though, right?”

Sam nods. “Shoot.”

“It’s the Veil. It’s getting untenable. I couldn’t see specifics but I felt this unbearable… _weight_ sitting on my chest, and there was pain, like I couldn’t breathe, and— what? _What._ Why are you all staring at me like that?”

“Uh, Charlie?” Dean says, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I think you gotta face the facts that you’re probably officially a prophet, or a psychic at least. Normal people don’t just start seeing glimpses of the great beyond.”

“Fine,” she snap-sighs, “whatever. The thing is, the Veil _must_ be fixed. If we can’t get anything useful out of Metatron to help Dean, then maybe he can at least tell us how to reverse his spell, and fast. Because if we don’t fix Heaven and the Veil…” she hesitates.

“What?” Dean prods, a bad feeling churning in his stomach because of _course_ more crap would be piled up on their plate. Charlie grimaces.

“I can’t explain it. It isn’t like I know for sure, but I _felt_ …” she licks her lips as if they’re suddenly dry. “If we do nothing, the Veil’s gonna fracture. The souls are gonna start spilling back in.”

Dean curses under his breath and turns to Sam. “You know what that means, right?”

“Thousands of pissed-off, deranged ghosts. At the very least.”

Dean rubs his temple, where he can feel a headache building. “Alright. Let’s go back in and see if we can’t squeeze something out of the douchenozzle.”

As they file back into the dungeon, he catches Cas watching him out of the corner of his eye. He wishes he could stop and just _talk_ to him for a few moments, just because it always seems to ease a bit of the weight off Dean’s shoulders, but he knows he can’t afford to. Given the mess they’re in, and what he’s done to Cas last time they met, _just talking_ is a luxury he doesn’t deserve. He tries to tells himself this, with the finality of the dungeon door slamming shut behind them.

* * *

 

Metatron turns out not to be much more forthcoming on the matter of Heaven that he has been about the Mark, but Cas is on a roll with the strategically applied violence today, and Dean and Sam are more than glad to lend a hand.

It takes ten minutes and a chipped tooth before the jackass is finally wheezing out “Enough! _Enough,_ I’ll tell you what you need to know about the spell, just _get your brutish hands off me_ already!”

Dean stretches his fist. _Pity,_ he thinks, mesmerized by the blood on his knuckles, the Mark purring hungrily, clamoring for _more more more_. He clenches his jaw. He can do this. He can resist. If he can’t, he’ll just walk it off, but he won’t lose control again— not in front of Cas and Charlie and Sam.

“What you have to do,” Metatron’s saying, his voice muffled by his rapidly swelling lip, “to reverse the spell, is to find out the first spell’s common denominator, and then find its opposite. Easy peasy.”

“Common denominator? The hell are you talking about?” Dean barks.

“Not so quick on the uptake, are we?” Metatron turns to him with a patronizing sneer. Dean has to shove his hands in his pockets to refrain from breaking his face. “It’s _obvious_ that all the ingredients of the spell had something in common. A main theme, if you will.”

“Well, what was it?” Sam prompts. Dean can tell he’s running out of patience.

“Well, let’s all put on our thinking caps,” Metatron says, taunting. “What were the spell’s ingredients? Well, let’s see. Heart of a nephilim, bow of a cupid. Sure tells you something.”

He looks around the room, smug and expectant. For someone who’s just been beaten up, he’s clearly having the time of his life.

“Go on,” Castiel tells him, harshly.

“Oh, come on! At least  _try_ to work with me!” Metatron complains, all petulance. “What is a nephilim, if not the product of a coupling between a human and an angel? And what do cupids  _do?_ ” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Is no one really seeing the big picture here? Any common elements? Angels, humans, and a pesky little…  _emotion_ ?” Metatron says with a small shudder, as if shaking something dirty off of himself. “I think you know what that means. That’s why it was so essential that I use  _Castiel’s_ grace specifically, of course.”

Charlie is quiet, unusually so. From the corner where she’s retreated, her eyes keep darting from Castiel to Dean. Sam, on the other hand, is making a point of looking at neither of them, his face tense and pinched. Dean notices, suddenly, that Castiel looks pale despite his tan skin, his body posture rigid, reminding Dean of the stiff way he held himself when they first met.

“Spit it out,” Dean barks, on edge.

“Well it couldn’t just be  _any_ old grace, now could it?” Metatron looks at all of them as if they were particularly stupid children. “It had to be a very, _very_ specific kind.”

In the tense silence, he lets his eyes drift to Dean, an unpleasant smile painting itself on his face.

“The grace of an angel in love with a human.”

There is a moment of perfect stillness, as if the room itself was holding its breath. Then, Cas storms out of the room, before Dean even has the time to react. For a moment, they’re all left blinking, suspended.

“Was it something I said?” Metatron asks, all mock-innocence.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam grits out, stalking over to his chair and taping his mouth shut.

Dean is still reeling, oblivious to the worried looks his brother and Charlie are sending his way. Metatron’s words are all he can think about, the last few seconds replaying themselves in his mind on an endless loop.

Cas is in love with him.

_Me,_ he thinks dumbly over and over,  _he meant me. Cas is in love with me._

The thing is, for all his self-deprecation, Dean is not stupid. It isn’t as if he’d had no idea. He certainly  _suspected_ . After all, when a guy turns his back on his entire family, defies his superiors, and literally  _dies_ for you a time or three, you pretty much have to accept there are  _feelings_ there. Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t aware of it — that he wasn’t aware of the way Cas always seemed to stand a little too close, even after learning humans didn’t really do that; of the way Cas always looked at him a little too long, lingering on his lips, or even worse, staring into his eyes like he was reading the goddamn secrets of the universe in them.

Just ‘cause Dean doesn’t do love, doesn’t mean he can’t recognize it.

But — and this is the real issue — he’s always found it hard to believe what his gut told him could be true. When you spend the majority of your life thinking nobody really needs you — much less, God forbid,  _loves_ you — it’s pretty hard to wrap your head around the fact an  _angel_ does. Shit— Dean’s not even sure he can wrap his head around what Cas really  _is._

Of course, he knows  _Cas_ — tough, nerdy little guy, with a heart too big and eyes too blue. But in his gut, he knows that Cas — Castiel — is so much more than that, and the idea kind of frightens him. How does a creature like that — something that has been around since before the beginning of time — go ahead and fall for someone like him?

It’s incredibly stupid, and a terrible idea. Dean’s not sure how Cas doesn’t see that.

“You should go talk to him,” Charlie says, quiet and so startlingly close that he jumps a little. He hadn’t even noticed her approaching.

“What the hell am I even supposed to say? Sorry you have terrible taste in men?”

Charlie glares at him. “He doesn’t, and don’t you dare. Just… let him know it’s okay at least. If you’d read the books…” she stops herself, shaking her head. “This isn’t just a joke to him, Dean.”

“It’s not a joke to me either,” he protests, defensive.

“I know, Dean,” Charlie says, patting his back. “I know.”

* * *

 

Castiel is standing by the Impala, his hands shoved deep in his trenchcoat pockets. Dean is a little surprised (and secretly, irrationally pleased) to find him there and not next to the Continental, as if he found Baby’s presence comforting. Dean can’t blame him. It’s not every car that sees you through multiple apocalypses.

Shoving his hands in his own pockets, he approaches a few steps. “Hey,” he says, wanting Cas to have at least some forewarning. Cas looks up immediately. His face is a mask of regret and shame, and it cripples something inside of Dean. Cas should never look like that. Cas is a supernova of power and courage and  _otherness_ beyond Dean’s understanding. Shame has no place on his features, and Dean wishes fervently he could wipe it away. But the best he can do is talk to the guy, so that’s what he does, even though he’s terrible at it. He owes Cas that much, at least.

“Metatron, man. What a douchecanoe.”  _Not a very promising start, Winchester._ He mentally kicks himself very hard in the shin. “Don’t let that asshole get you down, Cas.”

Castiel looks at him, and though the shame is still there, his eyes are clear and burning, twin blue flames alight with conviction. He looks reckless, and it sends a thrill down Dean’s spine.

“He didn’t say anything untrue.” His voice is quiet, but steady. Slowly, he steps up to Dean, until they’re facing each other. They’re so damn  _close_ — as close as they usually ended up being before Cas learned about personal space. It sets Dean’s skin tingling. He’s about to say something —  _anything_ — when Cas seems to suddenly lose his nerve, looking down and away.

“Dean, I want you to know this doesn’t have to change anything. It is my problem, and I expect nothing from you. I just hope…” He trails off, and when he meets Dean’s eyes again, his own are liquid and unsteady.

“I just hope this won’t affect your opinion of me. Your friendship has always been worth everything to me, and I hope I won’t have to lose it over this.” There’s a strained sort of dignity in Cas’s words, but it’s clear he’s hurting, and Dean’s head is whirling sickly at the speed of light.

Cas thinks Dean will hate him for this. Cas thinks Dean could never want anything more than friendship from him.  _How can he think that?_ , Dean wonders dizzily.  _How can he think there’s anything that could make me hate him? How can he not know that I—_

That Dean has spent months — years — dreaming of a moment like this one, telling himself it was an impossibility? How can Cas not know? How can Dean tell him? How can he even begin to explain to Cas how he feels?

He can’t. But he can, at least, help Cas to feel better.

“Cas,” he says, his voice foreign and hoarse in his own ears, “it’s okay. It’s fine. I… I kinda knew. I mean— I’ve known.”

Cas’s gaze, which had wandered into the vicinity of Dean’s boots, snaps back up, alert and alarmed. “You knew? Since when?”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He ends up doing a weird half-shrug, ducking his head to one side. “A while ago, I guess? I mean… I kinda figured something was up. You did take several bullets for me.”

Of course, there was also the staring— looking at Dean like he’s everything worth fighting for in this world; like he wants to eat him up. Those were the kind of looks that haunted Dean at night, when sleep wouldn’t come and he was trying to tell himself it was all in his head, that Cas couldn’t want him  _that_ way, that even if he did, nothing could come of it because their lives were a fucking nightmare.

“What I’m trying to say, Cas, is that—“ What  _is_ he trying to say? That it’s okay? That it’s all good? It  _isn’t_ okay, not in the slightest. It is not okay to know Cas feels this way about him, and to have to pass it up, simply because Dean’s life is too fucked up for something this good to ever work. It is not okay to have everything you ever wanted stand right in front of you, and have to turn away. Dean’s been giving up things he wanted his whole life, and he feels like it’s eaten a hole in him, a hungry dark thing that demands to be filled.

And Cas,  _God,_ Cas is looking at him like that again, his eyes trained on Dean’s like he couldn’t imagine anything better to look at, and he’s close enough for Dean to smell the thunderstorm-scent of him, and Dean doesn’t deserve this, isn’t worthy of this, not after he beat Cas up, not after he’s let him down, not after hearing how deeply Cas really feels for him— but Cas is  _there_ and so close and alive and warm, and Dean shouldn’t shouldn’t  _shouldn’t_ but he  _wants_ to, so he does.

It happens fast enough that he has no time to second-guess himself: where one moment there was just chilly evening air, now there are Cas’s lips, full and chapped and warm against Dean’s. Cas’s hands are still in his pockets, but Dean’s are on either side of Cas’s face, feeling the perpetual five-o-clock stubble beneath his fingers, and it should be weird but it isn’t, and Dean wants desperately for it to never stop. But Cas is startled still under his touch, and Dean’s brain starts throwing up a litany of  _wrong wrong wrong what did I do what the fuck did I fucking I do,_ his stomach churning shamefully.

He’s just about to pull back, when Cas suddenly comes alive against him, and then,  _oh_ , then it’s Cas’s hands coming up to touch him, one against the side of his neck, the other gripping his shoulder tight — exactly where the faded handprint is, where he’d dragged Dean out of Hell screaming and thrashing so many years ago — and it’s Cas’s mouth pushing back against his, tentative and gentle but so very  _purposeful_ , because Cas doesn’t do anything halfway. His lips part, and Dean’s eyes, which had opened, flutter back closed, because Dean is only human after all, and he’s going to let himself have this. Cas’s mouth is hot and perfect and tastes like everything Dean’s ever wanted, tastes like coming home. Dean sighs into it, even as the first brush of Cas’s tongue against his sends a searing thrill down his spine. It should be weird, or so he’d told himself a thousand times trying to talk himself out of wanting it, but it isn’t; it’s easy and hot and  _perfect,_ and Dean wants to do it again and again and again, until they’re both gasping for air.

_This is it,_ he thinks,  _this is what kissing Cas feels like._ And then, sharply, in the tone that always reminds him of his father:  _Make a mental note, Winchester, ‘cause it’s never happening again._

They pull apart, somehow — Dean’s hands are on Cas’s arms so he assumes he must have separated them, though he can’t remember doing it. Cas looks undone, his lips kiss-red and his pupils blown wide, and it takes everything Dean has not to kiss him again.

“Cas,” he says, his voice a fucking wreck. “I’m sorry.” It’s a filthy lie. “I’m sorry. That was… that was really shitty of me.”

Cas looks at him, blinking slowly, once and then again, as if the contact had left him feeling drugged. Dean can relate. Then Cas tilts his head and asks, perfectly earnest: “Why?”

“You know why, Cas.” Or at least Dean hopes he does, because talking about this is the last thing he wants to use his mouth for right now.

“No, I don’t,” Cas replies, still so sincere. “You wanted to. I wanted to. It was— enjoyable, wasn’t it?” He flushes a little. “And now that you know I—“

“Don’t,” Dean cuts him off. “Please just… don’t.”

“Why?” This time it’s vulnerable, rather than earnest.

“Because I can’t.”

“Can’t… kiss me?”

“Can’t any of it.” Dean could fucking cry right now, and wouldn’t that be a huge joke. “I’m not good with the whole…” he gestures wildly in the air. “You should’ve picked someone else, Cas. You should’ve picked anyone else.”

Cas looks at him steadily; there’s hurt in his eyes, but mostly they look so sure, so ancient. “There was never going to be anyone else.”

It has the finality and weight of gospel, and it cracks Dean wide open, a terrifying  _something_ threatening to spill out. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, without knowing what he’s apologizing for. All of it, he supposes.

“I’m sorry, but it can’t be me. I want to, I want to so fucking much, but it can’t. Even if I was—  _better_ , even if I knew how to do this without poisoning everything around me… there’s just no way, Cas. You know where I’m headed. You know what I have to do.”

_It’s never going to be me,_ he’s saying, with every labored breath his lungs dredge up,  _because I’ll be dead within a month_ ,  _and there’s nothing you can do to save me._

And Castiel knows. Dean can see it in the way he flinches slightly and then steadies himself, as if physically struck, trying and not quite managing to roll with the blow.

“The last word hasn’t yet been said,” he states, his voice a stubborn, fragile thing.

“Yes it has,” Dean retorts.  _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._ “By me. I’m leaving tomorrow, to do the trials. You and Sam stay here and work on reversing Metatron’s spell. I’ll check in with you after I’m done with the first trial.”

“Dean—“

“Don’t. Please, just don’t. It’s better this way.”

As he retreats into the bunker like a coward, his throat constricted painfully and the phantom warmth of Cas’s lips against his, he wonders who the hell, exactly, he’s trying to fool.

* * *

 

Dean wakes up before dawn, his duffel already packed from the previous night. He scribbles a quick goodbye note — not that he needs to, since he’s already informed Sam and Charlie of his departure the night before — and leaves it on the kitchen counter. The thought of breakfast makes him queasy, both because he’s still reeling from the night before and because the Mark is slowly but surely replacing his appetite with an entirely different hunger, growing more intense with each passing day; so he just grabs his car keys and goes.

Just being in the driver’s seat of the Impala, darting down the deserted highway, makes him feel a little bit better. It’s not that it stops hurting, really, or that he ever forgets how Cas’s mouth had felt crushed against his. But the open road always has a soothing effect on him, helps clear his mind, helps him get his head in the game.

He starts thinking about the trials ahead of him, sketching a plan— in the limited understanding of the word that’s always applied to Winchesters.

The first trial is, of course, the easiest. Killing a hellhound: no big deal.

Except for the part where, you know, Dean still occasionally has nightmares about hellhounds tearing at his flesh and ripping his insides out, dragging him to Hell. He’s never been real fond of dogs, and that delightful little experience certainly didn’t do him any favors in that regard.

Still, he can do this. This won’t be like last time, when Sammy had to step in and take up his slack. This time, Dean’s gonna do his damn job. It was always meant to be him: he was more than ready to give himself up to shut down Hell. It’s only fair. He’s the one who jump-started the whole apocalypse thing, after all, by breaking on Alastair’s wheel. More importantly, it  _should_ be him because Sam could have a future outside of hunting; Sam actually stands a chance of having a life — maybe not the white picket fence life he’d wanted, but a relatively normal life nonetheless. Dean, Dean has nothing.

_Liar liar pants on fire,_ whispers an all-too-knowing voice in the back of his head, as his mind supplies, unbidden, images of blue eyes and tan skin. He realizes he’s smiling, and shakes himself off, angry at his own weakness. Kissing Cas had been… amazing, obviously, and something he’d wanted — and told himself he  _didn’t_ want — for years. But that didn’t mean shit, did it? He and Cas— there would always be work to do for them. Cas had to deal with his angel stuff, and Dean… well. Dean wasn’t coming out of this alive. And even if he did, what could he offer Cas, really? A bunch of PTSD and daddy issues drenched in bourbon, that’s what. Hardly a match for living in literal Heaven.

No, it’s better this way.

Dean shakes the gloomy train of thought, and gets to work. His first order of business is, obviously, to find some poor schmuck whose contract is about to come due, because that’s usually the easiest way to come across a Hell mutt. However…

He stares at the Mark on his arm — quiescent for now — and wonders.

He’d been a demon, at one point; he’d been around Crowley’s hellhounds often enough before Sam and Cas cured him, and they hadn’t attacked him, not even once. Of course that might just have been because Crowley was holding them back, and he’s technically human, but—

—with the sudden clarity of a lightning bolt, an alternative plan unfurls in his mind. It’s a dangerous, reckless, and potentially suicidal plan, which means— it’s worth a try. If this goes the way he’s hoping, he won’t have to spend the next week tracking down expired demon deals, and he might even catch two birds with one stone.

Of course, things hardly ever go the way Dean hopes, but Dean’s always been a “go big or go home” kind of guy. So he doesn’t see why this time — this one last, big job should be any different. No, he’ll do this the way he always has: all in, guns blazing— and kick it in the ass.

* * *

 

**Castiel**

 

Castiel’s in a foul mood.

In large part, it’s due to Dean’s overnight disappearance. Castiel had known Dean was leaving, but that doesn’t stop him from worrying about him, wondering where he is, wishing desperately he could help him in his fight instead of being stuck here doing interrogation work. As for the other part, it’s annoyance: at Dean, for running to hide in his room after their kiss, and even more at himself— for not being able to stop replaying that kiss in his mind.

Castiel has been kissed before, but it’s never been anything like this. Kissing Meg had been a matter of establishing dominance, not pleasurable in the slightest (though she, at least, had seemed to enjoy it); his brief experience as a human — while somewhat more pleasant in the fact he was getting warm contact and comfort — had lacked the fire he had always read about in human literature; and the unfortunate kiss from Hannah… well, that had been awkward in all possible ways. He understands now what humans mean by the expression “it felt like kissing my brother”.

Dean had been completely different. Which, in retrospect, Castiel should have expected, because when has Dean been anything other than the exception in a millennial lifetime of rules? But it still hadn’t prepared Castiel for the feeling of Dean’s warm, surprisingly soft lips pressed against his, moving with an ease and knowledge Castiel will never be able to match. He curses himself now, for not reacting sooner, for standing frozen for a few moments, unable to process what was happening, and how Dean must have thought his advance was unwelcome when it was anything but.

When Castiel had shaken himself out of his stupor enough to reciprocate, it had been… well. Castiel isn’t sure he’s equipped to describe it. It had made him feel peculiarly  _human_ : fragile and shaken and vibrant and  _alive_ , hyperaware of his body and of the blood singing through every part of it, skin set alight by Dean’s proximity. At the same time, he had never felt more powerful, or more complete, like he was at home in his body, but _more_ than himself. And all the while, all his mind had been able to focus on had been Dean’s hands on his face, Dean’s tongue in his mouth, Dean’s pulse in his ears. If Castiel’s body had been singing, his grace had been burning with the intensity of a small sun.

It had been terrifying, and Castiel doesn’t think he could survive it a second time, but he wants nothing more than for it to happen a million times over. He wants to kiss Dean until there’s no air in both of them anymore.

But Dean isn’t here. Metatron is. And he holds the key to fixing Heaven.

Castiel is in a really,  _really_ foul mood.

He crosses his arms and looks over to where Sam is questioning Metatron, in the center of the dungeon. If Sam’s body language is anything to go by, he’s just as worried and frustrated with the situation as Castiel himself is.

“Enough playing around. I don’t give a shit about how your spell revolves around the power of love, or whatever. We need to know about the  _counter_ spell. Specifically, the ingredients we need would be a good start.”

Metatron, after a full night of rest, has apparently recuperated enough to get his petulance back. “But knowing the nature of the spell is  _essential_ to know how the counter spell works!”

His impassionate whine does not seem to impress Sam at all.

“The ingredients, Metatron. Unless you’d like us to beat them out of you.”

Metatron’s sigh fills the dungeon, and he eyerolls so dramatically that Castiel is half-convinced his eyes have rolled back in his head permanently.

“The first ingredient,” Metatron says, with the air of a bored teacher repeating the alphabet for the hundredth time, “was the heart of a nephilim. The offspring of a human and an angel. So, since we’ve established it takes a sacrifice of, well _, heavenly_ stuff to cast the angels from Heaven to Earth, we’re going to need to sacrifice something more...  _earthly_ to get the angels back into Heaven and seal all the rips in the Veil.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam says. Metatron rolls his eyes.

“What a shocking turn of events,” he chirps, leering at Sam.

Castiel punches him in the face.

“Speak plainly,” he orders.

“All right, all right, you brute!” Metatron spits blood and part of a tooth on the floor. “If you big bad cops had let me finish, I would have elaborated: we need to replace the angelic element in every item with its human counterpart.”

“That still doesn’t make sense,” Sam complains.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, tilting his head to the side, “it can’t be right. The offspring of a human and another human is just… well, any human.”

Metatron looks at him compassionately, as if he were a puppy with a serious brain injury.

“Really, Castiel. When have you ever known Him to make anything that easy?”

Castiel sighs. “Never, I suppose.”

“So what do we need to get?” Sam asks, impatience making his words clipped.

“What matters,” Metatron explains primly, clearly having the time of his life, “is power. There is power in prodigies, and in portents; there’s power in freaks and miracles. There is no power in paltry, measly, commonplace humans.”

“I beg to differ,” Cas says dryly, his jaw fiercely set. Metatron scowls at him.

“Anyway, as I was saying, you need to know how to interpret the rules. His rules. A nephilim is a powerful creature, because it transcends the boundaries of Heaven and Earth. What we really need here is a human that walks between worlds; a human with power. Now, you cannot get that out of two ordinary, boring humans. But say you take one of these two humans — their soul, anyway — and you twist it and turn it and clip it just right, until… it becomes something else?”

Metatron sits back in his chair, smug as a cream-fed cat.

“A demon,” Sam breathes out, disconcerted. “He’s talking about a demon.”

Castiel frowns. “The offspring of a human and a—” his face falls into a hard mask. “An antichrist. We need to kill an antichrist.”

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner!” Metatron claps his hands, delighted. “Of course, I have no idea where you would get one, but…”

“Good thing we do.” Sam bites back, glaring at him, before signalling Cas to follow him as he marches out of the dungeon.

Once they’re out of Metatron’s earshot, Castiel leans closer to Sam.

“There was that kid. That’s who you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

“Jesse,” Sam nods, running a hand over his mouth. “Shit. I have no idea where he could have gone.”

Castiel leans against the table wearily. “I suppose it’s a good thing you stopped me from killing him back then.”

“It wasn’t so we could kill him at a later time,” Sam replies bitterly.

This hurts him, Castiel knows. The Winchesters always did have a soft spot for unlucky children. But Castiel also knows — and Sam knows too — that this won’t stop them this time. Sam and Dean have been through enough horror and pain, in the past five years, to make them harder around the edges; they’ve seen what happens when they prioritize each other’s — or their sensibilities — before the greater good, and their mistakes have been visited on them tenfold. It breaks Castiel’s heart, but at the same time, there’s a small relief in knowing Sam will be by his side on this.

“We should find a way to track him down,” Castiel says, as unobtrusively as he can. Sam lets out a long, gusty breath.

“I know. We could have Rowena track him. Only, do you think it would work? Isn’t that kid crazy powerful?”

Castiel nods. “But he doesn’t know we’re looking for him, so perhaps he won’t be shielding his presence. Also, as much as it pains me to admit it, Rowena _is_ quite good at what she does.”

Sam purses his lips. “Alright. We’ll ask her to find him.”

Before they have a chance to, however, Sam’s phone rings, and Dean informs them that he’s five minutes away from the bunker with a change of plans, so they go upstairs to meet him.

“Why do I have a bad feeling?” Castiel mumbles.

“Because you know Dean?” Sam suggests with a weak smile.

* * *

 

It turns out to be much worse than either of them thought.

“You wanna go _to Hell?_ ” Sam explodes, standing up from the table. “Did the Mark dissolve your frigging brain? That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know, Sammy. I’ve had plenty of bad ideas,” Dean grins. It doesn’t sit quite right on his face, like he’s trying his best to seem casual and carefree when they all know he’s anything but. “Besides, if _you_ could handle it, then _I_ could handle it.”

Sam shoots him one of the patented _fuck_ _you_ looks that Cas has heard Dean refer to as ‘the bitchface’. “And you think Crowley’s just gonna let you get in there?”

“Crowley doesn’t have to know. I’ll be in and out before he can snag me, just like you did. It’s _efficient_ , Sammy. I can kill a hellhound _and_ rescue a righteous soul in the same go. Time isn’t exactly something we can afford to waste right now.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say. Most of him is rebelling violently against the idea of Dean undertaking something that dangerous, but part of him, the part that is still Castiel the garrison captain, the strategist, has to grudgingly find merit in Dean’s idea. It _is_ efficient. It’s practical, fearless; almost elegant in its recklessness.

“Even if you _do_ manage it, did it occur to you that you still have to go through Purgatory?” Sam rails.

“Sam is right,” Castiel says eventually, “it’s much too dangerous.”

“Well, lucky for me, this isn’t up for debate. I’m just _informing_ you, so.” Dean pushes his chair back and gets up.

“Don’t be a dick about this, Dean,” Sam tells him. “We’re in it together.”

“We are,”Dean concedes. “But I have to do what I have to do, and you’re not gonna stop me.” The words are filled with determination, but Castiel thinks he can hear something else beneath them, an undercurrent of _please don’t try to stop me, because if I think about this too hard I’ll lose my nerve._

Sam seems to hear it too, because he lets Dean march out of the room to re-pack his duffel, and slumps back into his chair with a defeated sigh.

“What are we gonna do, Cas?” he asks.

Castiel wishes he had answers. Not just for Sam’s sake, but for his own sake too. He wishes he’d come equipped with the promises of salvation he’d once brought to Dean. Reality had turned out a little different, though.

“Pray,” he says, dryly. He means it a joke, a bitter thing, but his heart still trips over the syllable. If he only thought someone was listening, he’d pray for Dean. He’d pray for all them.

In the meantime, he’ll have to rely on what his own hands can do.

* * *

 

** Dean **

Dean is loading up his bags into the trunk of the Impala when he hears Cas come up behind him. He thinks he knows why Cas is here, but he doesn’t turn to look at him, hoping it will serve as a deterrent.

“Dean,” Cas says, the beginning of an entreaty, and although Dean already knows he’ll have to answer ‘no’, his heart constricts in his chest anyway.

“Let me go with you.”

“Cas, we’ve talked about this.”

“But going into Purgatory alone—”

“Beats going into Purgatory with an angelic beacon at my side,” Dean cuts him off, but not unkindly. He knows how badly Cas needs to come along, to fight by his side; he knows, because he’d feel the same. But this — even without taking into account Dean’s feelings for Cas and his desire to keep him out of harm’s way — is the most logical solution. It’s strategic, that’s all.

“Last time, ever since we found you, we had Leviathans on our asses 24/7. And I’m not saying we can’t take those sons of bitches, but it sure would slow us down a hell of a lot,” he says reasonably. Unfortunately that does nothing to dispel the storm clouds gathered on Cas’s face.

“Besides,” Dean adds, quieter, “I have no idea if we’d even be able to get you out of there. I didn’t get you last time after all. And yeah, you chose to stay behind and all—” and damned if even after all this time, a stab of pain doesn’t go through Dean’s chest at that “— but the truth is, we have no damn idea if the portal was gonna work for you after all. And even just the  _idea_ of leaving you behind again…” his throat closes around the words, and he shakes his head.

His obvious upset makes a better job of easing Cas’s vehement discontent than his words had.  _So much for strategy,_ Dean thinks wryly.

“Alright.” Reluctantly, Cas nods his agreement. “But Dean, I don’t like this. I don’t like this at _all_ .”

“Yeah, I kinda gathered that,” Dean huffs amusedly.

“I’m not just talking about Purgatory,” Cas adds, his face still deathly serious. “The idea of you in Hell, even just briefly, I—” he shakes his head, clenches his jaw. “I  _hate_ it.”

He looks so pained that Dean can’t stop himself from reaching out, even though every part of him is telling him what a terrible idea it is. He puts a hand on Cas’s shoulder, squeezes a little.

“You know,” he tells him quietly, “I’m coming back.”

Cas looks up at him, and suddenly he isn’t Cas but  _Castiel_ , his eyes a ferocious blue blaze of determination, storms gathering around his set jaw, electricity crackling from his mouth when he speaks.

“I know you are,” he says, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. “Because I will come and drag you back out myself, if that’s what it takes. I did it once and I’ll do it again. Hell will come tumbling down before it takes you away from me.”

Dean doesn’t —  _can’t —_ say anything. His heart is beating a mile a minute, and he’s close enough to smell the ozone on Cas’s skin.

He needs to step back. He needs to stop touching Cas’s shoulder. He needs to get going. The memory of Cas’s lips on his is a living thing, snaking fingers into his chest and squeezing. He needs to get away. He can’t do this. He can’t do this, but he is anyway.

He leans in and this time, Cas meets him halfway, their mouths colliding with the inevitability of a wave crashing on the shore.

_Danger, danger,_ Dean’s instincts scream, but it doesn’t feel like danger. It feels like coming home. It feels like Cas is throwing on all the lights where there were only darkness and cobwebs. Kissing Cas feels like being known, being seen, being loved.

They kiss for what feels like an endlessly long time, breaking for air a few times when Dean runs out of breath.

“Dean,” Cas says, ragged against his mouth, and it’s almost more than Dean can bear. Cas’s trenchcoat is pushed half off his shoulder — Dean realizes with some surprise he must have done that, while they were kissing — and his open collar and backwards tie making him look curiously debauched.

_Danger,_ Dean’s mind repeats, but Dean’s hands are hungry and reckless, untucking Cas’s shirt and slipping underneath it, the warm skin of Cas’s waist somehow a shock. Dean doesn’t know why he thought it might be cold, because Cas is a burning star, righteous fire, and Dean is seared to the bone.

They stumble and lean against the Impala, and then Cas is running his fingers through the short hair at the back of Dean’s head and groaning into Dean’s mouth like he’s hurting, so Dean pulls open the door of the Impala and tumbles them into the backseat, because he’s only human, utterly flawed and human, and he doesn’t want to fight this anymore.

Part of him keeps telling him to stop, to think about this, but it’s easily squashed, especially with the way Cas is shrugging out of his coat, tearing buttons in his haste to get free of his shirt and  _yes_ ,  _fuck yes_ , this is good, this is better than good. He wrestles himself out his jacket and henley just in time for Cas to surge up and kiss him, all tongue and teeth and heat.

_How did he learn to kiss like that?,_ Dean thinks dizzily, but then he leans down and their hips meet and thinking isn’t an option anymore.

“Cas,” Dean gets out, his hips moving with a mind of their own as he drives a thigh between Cas’s legs, “Cas, is this— are you—“

“ _Yes_ ,” Cas replies, all grit and gravel, hips pumping upwards as his eyes flutter shut. “Dean, yes, whatever— whatever you want, _please_ —“ 

The need in his voice is a heady elixir, and all Dean needed to hear from him. Somehow, his hands find Cas’s fly, undoing it with shaking fingers and pulling Cas’s slacks off his legs. Though he should have expected it, it’s still a shock to see the way Cas’s boxers are tented, the wet spot on the front of them spelling out his arousal beyond all reasonable doubt. Dean wants badly to put his mouth on it.

Instead, he looks up at Cas, who’s looking at him through half-lidded eyes, his pupils blown wide.  _This is important,_ a voice inside Dean hammers against his chest,  _this is_ important _, so don’t mess it up._

“Cas,” Dean asks, surprising himself with how damned  _tender_ it comes out, “What do you want?”

And Cas — because Cas has never known how to do anything halfway — stares back at him, cheeks flushed and breath short, and replies: “Everything.”

Dean thinks he knows what he means, but that doesn’t stop his breath from hitching, or his heart from beating a wild, uncertain rhythm against his ribcage.

“Are you sure?” he asks, because he has to, he  _has to_ , he will never forgive himself if he doesn’t get this right. Cas nods jerkily and pulls him close; his lips are hot against Dean’s ear, sending a spike of desire through his gut.

“I want this. I want—“ there’s a shaky exhale of breath, the rush of air making Dean’s skin tingle all over. “If this is—“ Cas doesn’t finish the thought, but Dean understands anyway.  _If this is all we’re ever going to get, I want every last minute of it._

Dean nods, his face buried in Cas’s neck, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak past the knot in his throat. Cas is solid and warm beneath him, a reminder of everything that is real and good and worth fighting for. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels Cas wipe away a single tear with the pad of his thumb, his other hand petting Dean’s hair as if he’s not quite sure how to comfort him.

“Dean,” he says. “Dean, it’s alright. I want this. I want you. I want  _all_ of you.” His lips kiss the spot where his thumb was, and Dean wonders shamefully if Cas tastes salt. “I love you.”

For all that Dean knew it, he was completely unprepared for the effect hearing it has on him. Something raw and huge and defenceless swells in him, begging to be let out; a thirst he didn’t even know existed, like Cas is water and Dean’s just wandered out of a desert, delirious and half-dead.

“Cas,” he chokes, shaking his head feverishly, “I’m— I can’t— Cas,  _fuck_ . You’re—“ He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say—  _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you deserve better than this, I’m sorry I’m so damaged, I’m sorry I can’t say it, but if I say it I’ll drown, if I say it I’ll burn to ashes and there will be nothing left of me, not even the shadow of what you think you love—_ but Cas kisses him quiet, his hand sliding from Dean’s hair to his neck, resting on the pulse point.

“I know,” he says. “I know, Dean. It’s enough. You’re enough. You’re a good man, Dean, you’re so  _good_ , and I am proud to have known you.”

Dean is aware the noise that comes out of him sounds destroyed, but he can’t bring himself to care. All that matters is Cas’s hands, Cas’s voice, Cas’s eyes never leaving his for a second. He shucks his jeans and his briefs at the same time, the motion practiced and easy even in the tight space of the Impala. He doesn’t miss the way Cas’s gaze darkens watching him, or the sharp breath he takes when Dean’s erection is exposed.

_So human,_ Dean thinks, drinking him in; that’s not all of it, of course, because Cas is so much more than human, so much more than just one thing at any given time, but for now this is what matters, Cas’s desire spooling in front of Dean and leaving him unravelled.

He noses at Cas’s plain white boxers, trailing his mouth gently up the length of him and enjoying the sounds that draws from Cas’s parted lips. He lays a soft kiss over the tip of Cas’s cock before hooking his fingers into the waistband and  _pulling_ .

It’s a little daunting being confronted with the full reality of Cas’s arousal, but only a little; Dean is surprised there’s no panic swirling anywhere inside him. He’s known for a long time he was attracted to men, but never had the guts to do anything about it. This is different though, because Cas is so much more than the body wrapped around him, and Dean wants him in every single way. Except…

“Shit,” he curses. “Fuck, Cas, I’m— we don’t have any… I mean, uh. We’d need…”

“Just use your saliva,” Cas suggests, in the hoarse smoker’s voice that always makes Dean’s dick give an interested twitch.

Dean blinks at him. “What the hell—?“

“I’ve been watching humans for a long time, Dean,” Cas deadpans at him. “Do you think they had industrial lubricant in ancient Greece?”

It’s insane, the whole situation is insane. Dean feels a chuckle escape him. This is who he’s fallen for— this is who he chose, an eldritch creature who’s witnessed the birth of the world, wrapped in a package of sex hair, blue puppy eyes, and sandpaper-dry snark.  _For once,_ he thinks, swooping down to kiss Cas until he’s smiling again,  _life’s actually done me a solid._

After that, there’s not much talking anymore. Dean makes sure his fingers are as wet as they can be; if Cas’s eyes follow them hungrily as they’re sucked into his mouth, well, that’s just a fortunate side effect. He sets to work on opening Cas up, trying to swallow the nerves. Dean’s good with his hands, he knows that. He’s had countless girls tell him that, and has tried a few things on himself too. That doesn’t stop him from holding his breath as he works Cas loose, carefully searching and touching and  _stroking_ until he hits on the spot that makes Cas jerk like a live wire and almost hit his head against the door handle.

“Easy there, cowboy,” Dean soothes, his voice light with arousal and fondness. With his free hand, he reaches for his discarded henley and balls it up into a makeshift pillow to support Cas’s head.

“There really is no need,” Cas says, but his voice is warm and pleased, his cheeks flushed pink.

“Just let someone be nice to you, Cas,” Dean orders, laying a kiss over Cas’s hipbone.

“Advice I wish you’d take, too,” Cas sighs, carding his fingers through Dean’s hair. Then, as an afterthought: “It would seem that watching and  _doing_ are quite different. I never imagined it would be so—“

“Overwhelming?”

Cas nods. “Just so…  _everything_ . So  _much_ .”

Dean nods too, because he gets it. Then he goes back to what he was doing, and the only sound in the car is his hard breathing and Cas’s broken moans. It isn’t very long at all before Cas is tugging on his shoulder, urgent.

“Dean,” he murmurs. “Dean, I want— hurry, please hurry. I need you to—“

“Yes,” Dean replies immediately, “oh God, yes.” His arousal is a nearly painful thing, amplified a hundredfold by the fact that this is _Cas_ laid out before him, Cas begging him to take him. He holds himself up on shaking arms, not even caring as he wipes his hand against the leather of the seat, and lines their bodies up. Cas is flushed all the way down to his chest, cock straining and damp against his stomach. Dean has never wanted anything more in his entire life.

“Ready?” he breathes, hooking an arm under Cas’s leg to place it on his shoulder.

Cas just nods, his eyes shining and alive and almost black with arousal, and reaches a hand down to tangle his fingers with Dean’s free hand. And then.

Then,  _oh._ Dean wasn’t ready for this. It doesn’t matter how often he’s dreamt about it, doesn’t matter how badly he’s wanted it— he had not been ready for the tight heat enveloping him, for the suck-drag- _squeeze_ of Cas’s body around him, for the way Cas arches up and lets out a savage  _moan_ , head thrown back so far Dean just has to lean forward and taste the sweat on his throat. He hadn’t been ready for the dizzying waves of pleasure crashing over him every time he pulls back slowly, slowly,  _slowly_ , only to  _thrust_ back in, sliding home like it’s where he belongs. Dean thinks it very well might be.

They’re both sweating against the leather seats, their bodies folded uncomfortably in the tight space, but none of that seems to matter. Not to Dean, who feels like he’s found revelation in the crook of Castiel’s thighs; not to Castiel, who’s pushing back to meet his every movement, always,  _always_ giving as good as he gets.

It doesn’t last long, but Dean can’t find it in himself to be disappointed about that. There’s too much he’s grateful for, like Cas crying out Dean’s name as he comes, the image of complete abandon; or the way his body spasms hotly around Dean, coaxing his own blindingly powerful orgasm out of him; or this: lying tangled together on the backseat, Dean’s head in the crook of Cas’s neck, Cas’s leg hooked around Dean’s thighs.

“That was amazing,” he hears himself mumble sleepily against Cas’s throat. Then he remembers he should probably not assume, and looks up to see Cas’s reaction. To his great comfort, Castiel looks about as dreamy and blissed-out as Dean himself probably does, which is very gratifying and a bit hilarious to see on Cas’s face.

“It really was. I had know idea it would be… I mean, I thought I knew when— but I didn’t, not really. It wasn’t nearly the same thing. I should have known, though.” Cas looks down at him, and the depth of love Dean can read in his eyes is enough to take his breath away. “I should have known it would be different with you. Everything’s always different with you.”

Dean props his chin up on Cas’s shoulder. “Good different?”

“Lifechanging different,” Cas says, kissing his forehead. It feels like a blessing.

They stay like that for a while, until Dean’s back starts remind him he’s not 20 anymore, and maybe getting fresh in the back of a car is something he should avoid. It’s a rather abrupt reminder of reality, leaving a sour taste in Dean’s mouth. Reluctantly, he begins untangling himself from Castiel, feeling his joints pop as he does, and he sits up.

Cas follows suit, with — Dean can’t help but notice — considerably less difficulty and groaning. They end up sitting side by side. Dean’s staring down at his hands where they’re folded in his lap, until Cas reaches to take one and holds it between his own. Dean lets him, and to his credit, he doesn’t even really blush, thought that might be because he’s already warm and flushed all over.

“Listen, Cas,” he starts, and he already hates himself for those words. “This was fantastic. But you know it doesn’t change— I’ve gotta do what I’ve gotta do.”

Cas nods. “I know,” he says, bringing Dean’s hand to his lips to kiss the back of it. This time Dean does flush.

“I just wish I could give you more than this. You deserve better than this. You deserve— God, _everything_ . But the truth is, I’ve got nothing to offer. It would’ve saved you a lot of trouble if you’d just given up on me and moved on.”

Cas stiffens immediately at those words, his smile falling. “You can’t ask that of me,” he says, voice as hard as stone.

“I know. It’d be the smart choice, though. We both know I’m a lost cause.”

“No, we both know that’s  _bullshit._ ” Dean is taken aback for a moment by Cas’s vehemence, but it’s weirdly delightful to hear him swear.

“I’m never gonna stop trying to save you, Dean,” Cas adds then, his voice softer. Dean looks up despite himself, and meets earnest blue eyes. The conviction in them is as unsettlingly intense as it was the first night they met, when Castiel had looked Dean in the eye and told him he was worth saving. Maybe one day Dean’ll even believe it.

“I know,” he says instead. “Thank you.” He means that like he’s meant few things in his life.

“Still,” he can’t help but add after a bit, “You should focus on fixing heaven. You can’t help me where I’m going.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Cas retorts crossly, but kisses his hand again, this time in the palm of it. Dean tugs until Cas is nestled against his chest, and buries his face in Cas’s hair, laying a lazy, lingering kiss on the skin behind his ear.

He knows in a bit they’ll get cold, the leather sticky and uncomfortable beneath their bare bodies. And he knows he’ll need to go to sleep soon if he wants to have a shot at breaking into Purgatory tomorrow; it won’t be easy, tracking down a rogue reaper and convincing them to ferry him through. He also knows that, as always in this job, there’s a very real chance he won’t make it back. He knows all that.

But for now, he has Cas in his arms, and that’s enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Dean**

 

Dean can pinpoint the exact moment he hurtles into Purgatory, despite the brutal landing that makes him dizzy. It’s the _smell_ , most of all. It fills up his nostrils as soon as he touches the ground, pungent and wild. It’s a weird mix of scents, earthen and unearthly at the same time. It still pervades Dean’s nightmares.

He picks himself up off the dirt, his spinning head taking a few moments to adjust. The scenery around him is just as he remembers it, bleak and menacing. The sky is lead gray, and the trees and bramble patches draw close together as if hiding some dark, terrible secret. It’s not an altogether farfetched assumption, Dean knows. He pulls out his machete, keeping it ready.

The air in the clearing is quiet —  _too_ quiet — but there are no signs of movement, so he starts to make his way towards the stream where he’d first found Cas, and fervently hopes the directions Sam gave him are accurate.

Bit by bit, his awareness of his surroundings increases, until all his senses are alert and thrumming. He had almost —  _almost_ — forgotten what it felt like, the constant state of vigilance that Purgatory forces on you. Still, he welcomes the increased heart-rate and the goosebumps. In a place like this, adrenaline is good; adrenaline is what keeps you alive.

As if he’d invoked it by thought alone, suddenly there’s a pack of werewolves darting out from a thicket of trees, leaping in his direction. They’re fast, but Dean is ready for them, hacking and slashing with deadly precision as they come.

The thing is, though, there’s also  _a lot_ of them.

Dean decapitates a werewolf to his right and ducks to dodge a blow from the one on his left. Dropping into a crouch, he rolls sideways, away from the werewolf, then springs up again using only his legs — he’s not 20 anymore, and his knees protest, but the son of a bitch was not expecting him to get up and gets a blade through the stomach for his troubles — only to see two other mutts come running at him. He braces himself for impact, gripping the blood-slick handle of his weapon tighter, when suddenly there’s a dark form flying down from a nearby tree and taking one of the werewolves down, pinning it to the ground. Dean is busy kicking the legs of the other werewolf from under him, then hacking one of his arms off, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see the newcomer snarling and ripping out the wolf’s throat with his teeth.

Dean finishes off the werewolf he’s fighting with a clean, vehement blow of his machete that cuts clean through the bastard’s neck. A gush of warm blood sprays him in the face, but cleanup is a luxury Purgatory rarely affords; he turns around immediately—

—and is met with a proffered hand. His eyes track it all the way up the arm, to land on an achingly familiar face.

“How you doin’, chief?”

There is no holding back the huge grin that lilting accents prompts, so Dean lets it happen, lets relief and happiness wash over him, vigilance be damned.

“Benny,” he says, taking the extended hand and getting up off his knees.

He’s too choked up to say anything else, and the next moment, he’s pulled the vampire into a forceful hug.

“Sure is good to see you, Dean,” Benny laughs, the hitch in his voice belying the casualness of the words. “What’re  _you_ doin’ this side of the woods?”

Dean breathes out a laugh. “Trying to get into Hell, if you can believe it.” God, his life is  _ridiculous._

Benny does a double take. “What, again?”

“Yep. Trials didn’t really end up taking last time, so. Do-over,” Dean shrugs.

“Why do I feel like that’s not the whole story?” Benny’s suspicious tone and his unimpressed face make it clear just how much believes Dean’s little clean-cut explanation, and rightfully so. He makes to say something else, but he’s cut off by a growl coming from the underbrush.

They exchange a look.

“Talk while we walk?” Dean suggests.

“Sounds good to me,” Benny agrees, drawing his own weapon from his belt— and they’re off.

* * *

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“Believe me, I wish I was.” Dean’s voice is flatter than he intended.

Benny whistles, low and equally mirthless.

“Takin’ on a curse like that— that was mighty stupid, friend.”

In retrospect, Dean thinks, it really really was.

“Yeah, well, you know me. Not much with the strategizing.”

Benny crooks a sly smirk, all fangs. “Strategizing’s overrated anyways.”

After a moment of silence, Benny’s voice is quieter, more sober.

“So these are your options? Either self-destruct, or turn into a demon?”

“Pretty much.” Dean moves some foliage aside, revealing the entrance to Hell, sitting right where Sam had told him it would be. He’s still staring at the stones, deciding how many he’ll need to move, when he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“That’s rough, Dean. You deserve better, you really do.”

The sympathy in Benny’s gruff drawl is all too real, making something seize up in Dean’s throat.

“Yeah, well,” he replies with a shrug, “it’s not like you don’t know anything about kicking yourself out of existence so you don’t harm anyone else.”

Benny considers this for a moment, then nods. “Fair enough. Shall we?” He points at the entrance with his machete.

“Yeah, let’s shall.” They set to work, and with the first stone moved, Dean can feel the reek of sulfur and rot start to blow out of the hole, threatening to send him spiralling into a loop of his worst memories. All over again, he’s grateful for Benny’s solid, reliable presence at his side, keeping him grounded. Friends have been a rare and precious luxury throughout Dean’s life, and one he’s learned not to take for granted.

Between the two of them, they make short work of the rocks, and soon enough there’s a pile of them on the ground, and they’re stepping through the dark, dank entryway.

_You’re getting out of here,_ Dean tells himself, with vicious desperation.  _You’re getting back home._ Alastair’s sharp grin is a meat hook in his mind, and he can already feel the phantom sensation of blades slicing through his skin, his flesh sizzling as it burns right off his bones.

Then, clear as a bell, he hears Cas’s voice ringing in his ears again.

_I will come and drag you back out myself, if that’s what it takes. I did it once and I’ll do it again. Hell will come tumbling down before it takes you away from me._

With his next step, his heartbeat is steadier, and his hands are firmer.

One way or another, he’s getting back home.

* * *

Hell is as awful as Dean remembers it, and it is — pun intended — a hell of a memory.

“So,” Benny says, looking around with interest, “This is where I woulda ended up if I hadn’t gone an’ traded my soul for fangs?”

“Who says you would’ve ended up in Hell?”

Benny gives him a look that smacks of  _bitch, please._ Dean’s lips quirk upwards at the corner, but his mind is elsewhere: he’s trying to stay aware of his surroundings, but he’s also trying — much harder — not to let the smell of sulfur and rot overwhelm his senses and throw him into a full-blown panic.

Dean doesn’t want to imagine what Sammy had it like, down in the Cage; but he went downstairs the regular way, and the scenery is entirely too familiar. The vestibule, the black smoke drifting everywhere with the stench of sizzling flesh, and the screams. God, the screams are unbearable.

“You okay there, chief?”

There’s a solid hand on his shoulder and Dean is grateful for it. Briskly, he nods and sets off along the corridor, with Benny close on his heels.

“So who are we rescuin’ again? Any old soul will do?”

“I wish. No, it’s gotta be someone who actually doesn’t deserve to be here. You know, an innocent soul.”

Benny whistles, long and low. “Where we gonna find an innocent soul in Hell?”

“Beats me,” Dean starts, then, abruptly, he comes to a halt.

“Hang on a minute.”

“What?”

Dean turns around, a small rueful smile appearing on his face. “I know just who we need to look for.”

* * *

They find her in one of the deeper circles.

Dean leads the way with absolute certainty; he knows the route all too well. If anyone had told him that one day, it would actually come in handy that he’d sold his soul and been dragged to Hell by raging hellhounds, he’d have called them insane. Well, after punching them in the mouth, that is.

But because this is his life, and his life has been one cosmic fucking joke, his tour inside the pit actually  _is_ proving useful. He’s also apparently run into a stroke of luck today, because no hordes of demons come to stop his descent. He figures that with Crowley outside of Hell, his minions are probably floundering, unsure what to do, what infernal policy to follow.

Also, there was that brief stint Dean did as a Knight of Hell; he figures that probably commands some respect amongst the low-level demons. And if not, well — he’s a Winchester. They should know better than to tangle with his kind anyway. That doesn’t mean they don’t get a few minor demons — maintenance level, probably — trying to stop them, but Dean has Ruby’s knife firmly in his hand, and Benny is more than happy to help hold the suckers still.

They barrel through Hell at a rapid pace, purposeful and silent. Dean finds himself wondering what it had been like for Cas to do this, back before they first met. It was probably different to break into Hell when you were an angel; easier to blast through demon spawn when you had wings and a flaming sword, and your whole being was sentient heavenly light.

One thing Dean has kept to himself: he remembers that light. Dimly and distantly, like something from a half-forgotten dream, yes— but he does. It’s as if it was burned into his eyes at some point, etched into his bones, as much as the Enochian Cas had carved into his ribs later. You just don’t forget something like that, Dean thinks. You don’t just forget the face of salvation rushing towards you with righteous conviction, bathing you in forgiveness and acceptance and  _peace._ He remembers that, and he also remembers feeling terrified, absolutely scared witless by the creature Castiel was then, a creature the likes of which Dean had never seen or even dared imagine before. The power emanating from him was palpable, and  _pure._ He remembers the feeling of dread that had pervaded his blackened soul— that if something that pure touched him, surely he would burn into cinders and disappear.

Things had turned out quite different, though.

He thinks about Cas as he is now, blue eyes and large hands, the tired lines of his face shifting into warm smiles surprisingly often. They  _have_ come a long way. (He tries not to think about the other thing, the thing that happened between them— because it was once, and once only, and he can never have it again;  _will_ never have it again.)

Benny taps him on the shoulder just in time for Dean to shake himself out of his reverie. They’ve come at a crossroads, the corridor they had been following splitting in two different hallways. Dean thinks for a moment, and out of muscle memory alone — or should he say  _soul_ memory? — chooses the second, without hesitation. It leads them into a bigger chamber, and it’s there that they find her, at the far end of the room.

Ellie is pinned to a plank of metal with ropes tied tight around her wrists, ankles and neck. Her dark hair — it smelled like sandalwood, Dean recalls — has been completely singed off and there are burns on her face, too. Cuts and bruises litter her bronze skin, and there are metal bands holding her in place along the torso and legs, with iron spikes cutting into her flesh. She seems to be unconscious, but her face is still twisted in agony. Dean knows how that goes: in Hell, there is no such thing as reprieve from suffering, not even temporarily. When you’re knocked out cold from pain— that’s when the nightmares come.

_God, Ellie, I’m so sorry._

Benny curses under his breath. “What’d  _she_ do?”

“Sold her soul to save her mom’s life,” Dean replies, his voice hoarse.

Benny looks down, shaking his head in sympathy. “That is too damn bad.”

“We were supposed to save her,” Dean mutters, starting towards her, but Benny holds him back.

“Look, Dean, this girl don’t deserve this, she don’t. But she  _did_ sign her soul over. Does that still make her innocent?”

Dean stops for a moment to consider that. Benny has a good point, but now that he’s  _seen_ Ellie like this, he can’t leave her in here. He just can’t.

“Technically? No. But in all the ways that matter… her heart was in the right place; she did a  _good_ thing, Benny. I figure that’s got to count for something, by God standards, so she should fit the bill for the Trial.”

Benny — ever the realist — makes a doubtful sound, but he doesn’t disagree.

“And if she  _doesn’t_ fit the bill?”

“Then I’ll come back. Grab another soul. But she’s gettin’ out,” Dean states, in a voice that brooks no arguments.

Benny looks at him for a few moments, and eventually chuckles.

“You never change, man.” He ducks his head in the direction of the torture table.

Dean hurries to Ellie’s side and starts undoing the ropes around her limbs. They’re tied tight, cutting through the skin and into raw flesh, large purplish bruises mottling the surrounding area. At Dean’s touch, Ellie stirs and her eyes flutter open briefly, only to roll back into her head.

“Ellie,” Dean says gently. “Ellie, can you hear me?”

Her eyes crack open again at that, with a faint moan. “I— wh…” She seems to struggle to recognize him, her gaze focusing and unfocusing.

“It’s me, Ellie. It’s Dean. Dean Winchester. We met at the ranch, remember? My brother and I, we gave you a bag of goofer dust.”

That gets a weak reaction out of her, her eyes widening momentarily. “D-Dean? You— it’s really you? Are you real?”

“As real as can be,” he assures her, undoing the ropes around her ankles, trying to be as delicate as possible with the broken skin. A quiet sob wracks Ellie’s form, then another, louder one.

“You said I’d be okay. You said they wouldn’t find me, the— the hounds, that they wouldn’t…”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m here to get you out, Ellie, just hang on—”

She doesn’t seem to hear him, her gaze still shifting around restlessly, as a tear rolls slowly down her cheek.

“You said I wouldn’t have to go to Hell— you promised. You promised I wouldn’t…”

Dean’s stomach twists sickly, his heart heavy with remorse.

He remembers making that promise, and he doesn’t have it in him to tell her the truth: that ultimately, he’d chosen to save his brother over closing Hell and saving, well, everyone. If he could go back— he doesn’t know what he would do. It’s no excuse for letting Ellie down, but it’s all the more reason for him to actually shut the doors of Hell himself and at least partially atone for his sins.

“I’m so sorry, Ellie, I am,” he swears, “but now you have to work with me here, okay? We’re getting you out of this shithole, just hold on for a few moments,  _please._ ” There’s a slight tinge of desperation to his voice. “I will fix it. I’ll fix this damn mess.”

As gently as he can, Dean eases Ellie off the rack, and cradles her beaten body in his arms — it’s her soul, really, but spirits are agonizingly  _physical_ in Hell: that’s kind of the point — as he deliberates on what to do next.

Motioning with his head for Benny to follow, he gets out of the dungeon and back into the corridor, when suddenly, he hears it: the baying.

It’s what he expected — counted on, even — but the hellish growls, wet and ferocious, still make a shiver go down his spine.

“Benny,” he says urgently, “you gotta take her outside. Go to the clearing, as fast as you can, and wait for me there.”

“The hell?” Benny’s tone, despite its gruff appearance, is alarmed, but he holds out his arms regardless, and Dean carefully eases Ellie into them.

“Can’t leave just yet, there’s something I gotta do first,” Dean mutters, pulling holy fire-burnt glasses out of his jacket pocket and putting them on.

Benny blinks. “What, look like a jackass?”

“Just  _get her out of here,_ Benny!” Dean barks, pulling out Ruby’s knife. Benny does, which Dean is thankful for, even though he can basically  _feel_ the disapproval and worry radiate off of him. He doesn’t have time to feel bad about it or give any reassurance though, because suddenly there are three hellhounds in front of him— and God help him, they’re just as huge and ugly — and as terrifying — as they were the first time around. He clenches his fist around his weapon and tries with all his might not to relive those moments, because  _now’s definitely not the time, Dean_ . He stands his ground.

The beasts have stopped a few inches from him, growling agitatedly, and with a small thrill of triumph, Dean realizes his hunch must be correct. They can sense the Mark’s power — a power bestowed by Lucifer and belonging to Hell — and are confused, torn between recognition and, perhaps, even fear of the dark aura emanating from Dean’s arm.

Two of the hounds begin to retreat towards the back of the tunnel, apparently losing interest now that Benny and Ellie are clear out of sight— but one, the biggest one, remains. After a moment of growling deep in its throat, it approaches Dean, scenting him. Dean supposes this would be sorta cute if it were a normal dog, but the hellhound’s sniffing sounds ravenous and hostile and lethal, and he has to force himself to stand still and not show any unease.

Suddenly, the growling subsides slightly, and that’s when he knows for sure: this hound is one of Crowley’s pets; it actually  _knows_ him, remembers Dean’s scent. Not his body scent of course, no; Crowley had explained that much. The thing that makes hellhounds so apt at collecting sinners is, of course, that they can smell  _souls_ — and this one had picked up Dean’s scent when his soul was still fully blackened by the rot of the Mark. Which means, Dean realizes with a not entirely pleasant shiver, that it considers Dean  _pack._

Considering what he’s about to do, that might almost make him feel bad for a moment. Then he thinks about Jo— brave, sweet Jo, with her midsection torn to bits by a Hell bitch for trying to save Dean; he thinks of Ellen and Ellie and of himself, bleeding to death on a carpeted floor as Lilith’s laugh echoed in his ears.

Yeah, no. He really,  _really_ doesn’t feel bad.

A flash of movement, and the blade of his knife is stuck in the mutt’s throat. A spray of black blood hits him square in the face, and he has to fight an urge to gag, but he keeps on, twisting the knife. The hellhound lets out a howl of furious agony and lunges at him, pinning him to the floor with its weight. Up close, Dean can feel its stench, like blood and sulfur and spoilt, rotting meat; it’s nearly overpowering; nearly. He’s been in this position before, and he can’t afford to fuck up now.

Taking a gulp of air, he slashes the knife downwards, opening up the beast’s belly. Black goo oozes over him, drenching his clothes completely. The stench of sulfur fills his nostrils completely, and he gags again. Above him, the hound shudders and convulses once, twice, then falls heavy atop him, completely knocking the air out of his lungs.

For a moment, Dean lies there trying to catch his breath, willing the nausea to subside; but immediately, he can hear frenzied baying come from deep within the tunnels, and somehow he’s not so sure he’ll be considered pack anymore.

Pushing the carcass of the hellhound off him, he gets up — dripping black blood everywhere — and breaks into a run, heading for the clearing, where Benny awaits with Ellie’s soul.

He spares a moment to hope nothing nasty has gotten to them. Then he remembers they’re in fucking  _Purgatory,_ and hope seems like a pointless luxury.

Sure enough, as soon as he hits the clearing, he’s met with the sight of Ellie huddled on the ground, shivering and crying, Benny standing in front of her as he tries to fend off three rougarous.

“Oh, come on,  _really_ ?” Dean mutters to himself through clenched teeth. Working as fast as he can while still covered in black slop, he pulls out his lighter and finds a dead branch on the ground, lighting it up.

A molotov would be better, a flamethrower would be  _way_ better, but this is Purgatory, and there is no ‘better’ here, just survival. He charges at the monster closest to him, setting its hair and clothes on fire, then throws the torch at Benny, praying it’ll land right and not sputter out on the way.

Dean only has the time to hear Benny shout at the rougarou he’s fighting -  _oh, come on, I’m not even really human, you know_ \- before the third one launches himself at him, knocking him to the ground and knocking the breath out of him. It’s snarling and repulsive and  _hungry_ , lunging at his throat —  _long pig,_ Dean thinks to himself, hysterically — but Dean is still covered in slippery black blood, which gives him the chance to flick his lighter at the rougarou’s tattered shirt once, twice, until it catches. Dean takes advantages of the confused scream it lets out to kick him off, rolling away onto the dry, cracked dirt to put out the flames that have spread to his jacket.

Fucking Purgatory.

He rolls back onto his feet and hurries to where Ellie’s curled up, lifting her in his arms just in time to see Benny shove the — mercifully still lit — torch into the third rougarou’s face. He catches Benny’s eye and jerks his head in the direction of the trees, the message clear:  _to the portal._

They make a run for it.

Due to some stroke of luck — or perhaps the trail of dead bodies they’ve already left behind — they don’t find too many creatures on the way: a vampire, hissing at them from a thicket of trees, and two ghouls that Benny leaves in bad enough shape they retreat, while Dean runs ahead, Ellie a warm, fragile weight in his arms.

The portal is where it’s always been, easier to find now Dean knows what to look for. The rift is still suspended in midair, sucking in the random leaf or twig.

“Okay,” Dean says, more for his own benefit than Ellie’s, “alright.” He sets her on the ground gently, and she looks up at him, blinking in the light. She looks a little like a fearful, wounded animal, only just starting to believe she’s free, trying to wrap her mind around the startling absence of darkness and pain.

Dean can relate.

“We’re getting you out of here, Ellie,” he tells her again, as reassuring as he knows how. He pulls out his switchblade, hoping it’ll look less threatening than the toothy blade hanging by his belt. Ellie still flinches at the sight of it.

“Home? I’m going home?” she asks, the tentative hope in her voice breaking Dean into a million pieces.

“No,” he confesses, “you’re not going home. I’m sorry, Ellie. You died, and nothing can change that.”

_Unless you’re me, or my brother, or Cas. Then you get as many rides on this shitty merry-go-round as you like. More than, in fact,_ Dean thinks, but doesn’t say, watching Ellie’s eyes fill with tears. He kneels down before her, eyes level with hers.

“But you’ll never have to come back here either. The place you’re going… is a good place,” he tells her, with a smile — even as he thinks of corrupt angels, mental conditioning and timeless dungeons, and asks himself if he really believes it. It doesn’t matter that he believes it, though, as long as he makes  _her_ believe it.

“Heaven, Ellie,” he tells her with a small smile. “You’re going to Heaven.”

She looks at him for what feels like a long time, a time they can’t afford to waste.

“Give me your arm, Ellie.”

“You’ll really take me to Heaven? I’ll be at peace there?” She’s holding her arm to her chest, cradling it, wary.

A growl sounds from the underbrush, and Benny spins to face that direction, senses alert.

“Heaven—“ Dean starts, then stops. Heaven is an illusion? It’s a storage unit for souls? He tries to tamp down on his cynicism, to forget what his mind tells him and remember what it had felt like to see Ash again, to see Pamela, her eyes intact and twinkling with humour.

“Heaven is your dream life,” he concludes. “It’s all your loved ones in one place. Just peace and contentment and… resting. Forever.”

She eyes him uncertainly for another moment, so he adds: “Trust me. I’ve been there.”

Ellie gives a soft snort. “And, what, eternal happiness didn’t agree with you?” For a moment, she looks just like the old Ellie, determined and wry and untouched by Hell.

Dean extends a hand and a crooked smirk. “Remember that night, when I told you I just— couldn’t? Well, turns out I still can’t. Have anything nice, that is.”

There’s the barest hint of an answering smirk on Ellie’s lips when she finally, finally offers her arm up, laying it in Dean’s hand. He cuts her carefully and precisely, trying to avoid any pain; he might as well not have bothered, because her eyes go dead and dim the moment his blade touches her skin.

_Don’t think about it,_ he orders himself.  _Don’t think about Hell. Don’t think about what you did._

_All the more reason to erase yourself from existence,_ a small, cold voice replies.

Ignoring it, he cuts into his own arm, finally locking his hand at Ellie’s elbow.

_“Conjuncti sumus, unum sumus,_ ” he murmurs. Watching her soul disappear inside his arm, the wound sealing up perfectly, is as surreal as it was the first time around.

He stands, turning to Benny. “Now you,” he barks.

But as soon as Benny turns around, he can tell Benny has no intention of going with him.

“You can’t be serious,” he says flatly. “This place is a neverending friggin’ nightmare. You’re coming with me.”

“Dean,” Benny shakes his head. “It’s like I told your brother. There ain’t a place out there for me.”

“And  _this_ is the place for you?”

Deep down, Dean should have known this was coming. It’s still as painful as a kick to the kidneys, almost making him double over with the unfairness of it.

_Everybody leaves you, Dean._

“Look. It’s simple. This is monster land. I’m a monster.” Benny spreads his arms, in a  _so there_ gesture that would be almost comical in another context. “Besides, you and your family seem to come through here a lot,” he adds, voice lilting with irony. “Might need a friendly hand next time you pop on by. You know, since I’m so much better than y’all at this.”

Dean feels his mouth twist into a smile despite his anger. “Asshole,” he accuses, a moment before throwing his arms around him, and feeling Benny hug back just as hard.

“Keep your head up,” he says when he steps back. “Don’t let me hear you let those bastards get you.”

“Well, hell,” Benny grins, “Come ask me yourself. You know where I’ll be.”

Dean nods, his throat in knots all over again.

Then he’s through the portal, and hurtling back across dimensional planes right onto the mossy wood soil of Maine.

He allows himself a moment to get his bearings, and a few more to grieve for losing Benny yet again. But Ellie’s soul pulses steadily into his arm, reminding him he has things that need doing, and need doing fast. He pats his jacket for the piece of paper he’d stuffed there before leaving, and finds it in an inside pocket, thankfully free of black hellhound goo. Taking a deep breath, he reads from it: “ _Kah-nah-om-dar_.”

The spell hits him like a punch in the gut, burning through him from the soles of his feet across the veins in his arms, searing into his chest and screaming inside his head, loud enough that he almost falls to his knees, his forearms incandescent and throbbing.

Gasping for air, he leans into a tree. His body tingles and aches all over, and he thinks he’s starting to understand just what Sam had gone through. It had looked like hell from the outside, but from the inside, it might actually be worse.

Bit by bit, he gets his breath back, his arms still throbbing even as the pain slowly subsides. He allows himself a few deep, shaky breaths, letting his eyes fall closed as he rests his head against the tree trunk.

That turns out to be a terrible idea, because before he has a chance to open his eyes again, there’s a blade at his throat.

The attacker is behind him, but Dean doesn’t need to see them to smell the stench of sulfur, pervasive and rotten and  _everywhere_ where there was only clean forest air a moment before.

_Of course,_ he thinks, followed by a string of curses, because why  _wouldn’t_ Crowley send someone after him, considering Dean’s just broken into Hell, stolen a soul and killed a hellhound?

“Look,” he starts, as reasonably as anyone can with a knife to their throat, and probably more than most. “Whatever you think I did, I’m sure we can find a compromise.”

“I highly doubt it,” replies a sweet, silky, polished voice; Dean hasn’t heard that particular accent in years, but he’d know it anywhere.  _Today’s a day for old acquaintances,_ he thinks, dizzily, as his heart skips an uncertain beat.

“You’re dead,” he chokes out against the cool blade.

“That’s either an unbelievably obvious statement, or an unbelievably ineffective threat,” Bela replies, her breath warm where it tickles Dean’s ear.

“Fucking hell,” Dean mutters, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment, unable to believe just how much of a grotesque horror show his life at any given moment.

“Yep, that’s where I’ve been, Dean,” she replies, conversationally. Dean can smell expensive perfume over the acrid edge of sulfur, can feel her hair brush his cheek.

“Incidentally,” Bela adds, in a way that would sound apologetic if it wasn’t so fundamentally uncaring, “that’s exactly where you’re going, too.”

* * *

**Castiel**

With Rowena’s indications, tracking Jesse down is much easier than Castiel had hoped. So easy, in fact, that he starts wondering whether she hadn’t just sent him on a wild goose chase—but as soon as he drives into Kettlefield, Indiana, he realizes that isn’t the case at all.

For starters, there’s the fields surrounding the town: dusty and grey, withered into ash. Then there’s the cattle lying motionless on the ground. Castiel steps out of the Continental to check on them: not dead—just asleep, but deeply so. They don’t even wake up when he pokes them with his angel blade. Frowning, he gets back into his car and drives to a diner in the center of town.

The place is empty, save for a bored-looking waitress and a bald cook on the other side of the counter. They both have a glassy, dazed look to their eyes, and mechanically lift a hand to greet him, drawling out identical ‘hi’s.

_What the hell is wrong with this town?_ , Castiel asks himself, smiling at them as naturally as he can. He orders a cup of coffee, then sits down at the counter, ignoring the bored waitress’s vague gesture towards a dusty table.

“Good afternoon,” he starts amicably, even though this place makes a strange, cold shiver run along his spine. “Say, I’m in town looking for an old family friend—do either of you happen to know of a boy named Jesse Turner?”

The bartender and the waitress exchange a long, blank glance. The waitress shakes her head with a half shrug.

“No,” replies the bartender, “can’t say I have. Sorry, mister.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel presses on, his polite smile faltering as he can  _feel_ the insincerity of their answers crawl across his skin. “He would be about fourteen. Dark hair, brown eyes. His father was a good friend of mine from college, before he passed away.”

More blank staring, this time directed at him.

“Well?” he prompts eventually.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” the waitress replies this time, as the cook shakes his head.

“Are you? Because I think you’re lying.”

“And I think,” the cook replies, starting to pull something from under the counter, “that you should quit asking questions about Jesse Turner if you care for your life at all.”

In only a few seconds – before the man has even had time to pull out his shotgun – Castiel has him pinned against the counter, blade against his neck.

“As it happens,” he growls, “I don’t. But there’s another person whose destiny I care far more about. So I suggest you cooperate, before my hand slips.”

The cook twists his head up to look at him, and Castiel can see nothing in his eyes. Not courage, simply a lack of fear. A lack of— _anything._ It unsettles him enough that he only sees the waitress charging him with a butcher’s knife a moment too late, but he still manages to block her attack and send her crashing back into a table. She snarls at him like an animal, and lungs at him again, but he sidesteps her and her attack goes wide. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the cook coming up behind him with a broken bottle, so he pivots around and sinks his blade into the man’s chest.

Nothing happens. No screaming, no blood, no blinding white light pouring out of the wound. The man just crumples to the floor, in a weird, abandoned way that makes Castiel thinks he must be lighter than he really is. Before he can make sense of it, he’s aware of the waitress at his elbow, ready to strike again: he catches her wrists in one of his hands and squeezes, not particularly gently. There should be a moan of pain, or at least another snarl, but—nothing. There’s nothing.

_Not even a pulse,_ Castiel realizes with a certain amount of surprise, pressing his thumb to the veins in the woman’s wrists.  _What is this town?_ , he thinks again, uneasy.

She just stares at him, unblinking, perpetually and impossibly bored, even as she tries to wriggle free of his grasp. Castiel grips her wrists tighter, holding her as still as he can manage, then he summons all his concentration and reaches his other hand into her midsection, easily bypassing skin and flesh.

He’s not exactly surprised when he doesn’t find a soul. What catches him off guard, though, is how  _wrong_ everything else inside her feels, too. Like some pieces are missing—or like all the pieces are there but scrambled in a haphazard order. It’s nothing Castiel has ever felt before, but he feels certain that this woman – this  _thing_ , whatever it is – should not exist by any rights.

As soon as he pulls out his hand, the woman crumples to the floor, twitching for a long few moments before going perfectly still. Castiel racks his brain for an explanation, but finds none. He had done nothing to hurt her, much less incapacitate her completely. It is, he reasons, as if the mere contact with the energy of his grace had short-circuited something in her. Castiel wipes his hands on his trenchcoat, feeling weirdly unsettled. He debates disposing of the bodies, but no police officers seem to be forthcoming, and he has more pressing matters to take care of.

There aren’t many people in the town, but what few he runs into all look as vacant and lifeless as the two in the diner. Asking about Jesse was clearly a mistake the first time around, so he doesn’t bother to repeat it. Instead, he walks to the very end of town, stopping in front of the town hall. It’s a large, dilapidated building, paint peeling off the walls, windows shuttered. Castiel is fairly sure there hasn’t been a mayor in this town for a long while. Still, he has a feeling about this building: something about the way the non-people of the town seem to steer clear of it.

Breaking down the double doors is ridiculously easy, the wood rotting and frail. Inside, the first thing he notices is the unpleasant smell of a dank, closed place, and something else—the smell of humans; ripe, not particularly hygienic humans who have been staying inside for too long. It strikes him, suddenly, how incredibly odorless both the bartender and the waitress had been, and he berates himself for not noticing it sooner, because it seems like an important detail right now.

Cautiously, he treads down the deserted hallway, checking unlocked, musty rooms only to find them empty. As he heads upstairs, the smell gets stronger, and there’s a faint noise in the distance; he strains to hear it better, recognizing it as the sound of a TV prattling on at a low volume.

The sounds are coming from a room at the very end of the hallway. A dusty sign on it identifies it as the Town Council room. Castiel hesitates outside for a few moments, trying to discern what he will find beyond the door. Other than the TV, mindlessly droning on some comedy with a laughing track, he can hear faint shuffling noises, the ticking of a clock, a human’s slow breathing. He’s about to burst in when a voice, high and clear, comes from inside the room.

“Might as well come in. I knew you were coming the moment you rolled into town.”

That gives Castiel pause – if he were human, his heart might have tripped over a couple beats – but only for a second. The next, he’s turning the handle and pushing the door open, his heartbeat perfectly steady.

Inside, the room is disconcertingly bare, and in a state of appalling disarray. A large table, presumably the one used for town meetings, is pushed up against a wall. Clothes are strewn everywhere on the floor, as well a candy wrappers and other refuse Castiel doesn’t want to examine too carefully. In a corner of the room, a large, dirty mattress lays, and on it, a frighteningly skinny boy, matted hair falling into his face. Everything about him is unkempt but his eyes, which are dark and alert, and focused on Castiel.

There’s something so immediately, terrifyingly  _other_ about him, that Castiel knows it instantly, without any possibility for doubt.  _This is Jesse. This is the devil’s spawn._

“Are you Jesse Turner?” Castiel asks, regardless, while he tries to devise the best plan of attack.

“Yes,” the boy replies, his voice slow and calm, almost hypnotic. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? We’ve met before.” The boy turns around a fraction, facing Castiel head-on. His eyes are sharp as knives.

“You’re the angel who tried to kill me.”

Castiel remembers that, of course. He also remembers all too well how that ended: with him turned into a motionless, powerless figurine. Which means the boy remembers it too.

“I am,” Castiel replies, wary, because there’s no point in denying it.

“Did you come to try again? ‘Cause you know, I’ve kinda outgrown action figures. Maybe this time I’ll just make you disappear completely.” The boy chews on a bloodless lip. “Though, that wouldn’t hurt nearly as much as some other things I could do to you.”

He tilts his head to a side, and in that moment there’s nothing boyish — or human — about him.

Castiel raises his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I didn’t come to kill you,” he lies. “But I have questions. What is this place? And where have you been all this time?”

Jesse keeps staring at him in that unsettling, unearthly way.

“Around,” he replies, vaguely, ignoring the first question. Then he chews on his lip again in what Castiel can tell is an acquired nervous habit. Jesse didn’t have it as a child. “It isn’t nice to lie, you know,” he whispers then, the words soft and threatening.

_He knows I’m here to kill him,_ Castiel thinks, his wariness increasing.

“What happened to the people of this town?” he insists, hoping to divert the boy’s eerie focus.

Jesse shrugs. “Nothing. They’re just minding their business. As they should. As  _you_ should.”

Castiel takes a moment to parse those words, and gets the startling sense that Jesse isn’t lying, not really; nothing happened to the people Castiel met, but the alternative is somehow even more chilling. He takes a measured step forward, staring Jesse down.

“They’re not the real townspeople, are they? They’re copies. They aren’t even alive.”

“They are too!” Jesse barks, with unexpected ferocity. “They’re alive, they’re  _real_ , I  _made_ them!”

Years ago, Castiel wouldn’t have noticed, but now he can hear it as clearly as a bell: the twisted, buried-deep frailty of this boy, the frightened child still curled up somewhere inside the despondent, unsettling teenager.

Castiel takes a chance, stepping forward under Jesse’s anger-narrowed eyes.

“Yes, you made them,” he concedes, his voice gentling, “but they’re not alive, not really. They don’t have souls. Surely you know that. It’s not because your powers failed you: there  _is_ no replicating a human soul. Those—  _creatures_ out there, they’re not humans.”

Slowly, as if approaching a flighty animal, he sits down on the end of the filthy mattress. Jesse jolts and scoots backwards, glaring at him like he would love nothing more than to set Castiel on fire. Castiel doesn’t have the slightest doubt that Jesse could do it.

“What happened to the real inhabitants of this town, Jesse?”

The angry eyes shift, uneasy, looking at the dirty floor. “Gone,” Jesse replies, his voice a flat monotone. Castiel waits in silence for him to elaborate, and isn’t disappointed.

“The demons took some,” he murmurs. “They were looking for me— they’re _always_ looking for me. I thought when I left home that I would be okay, that I was strong enough, but they always find me. No matter where I go, or how I hide. In the end they always come.” Jesse picks at his sleeve.  

“They burned through a few houses until they found some people who had seen me and then they took them, they— possessed them, and they came for me. They came to get me. So I killed them.”

The boy looks up, his eyes still dark and hateful, as if daring Castiel to reproach him, to condemn him. Castiel doesn’t. He knows all too well what it means to be a fugitive, and he can’t imagine what it must have been like for this child to have endured six years of it.

“I killed them and I made the other townspeople forget, but then more demons came. I wanted to run again but I was so tired. And it’s always the same. Wherever I go, it’s always the same. They always find someone who knows where I am. They always come for me. So I pretended to leave town.” Jesse pauses, chewing his lip again, some of the rage leaving his eyes, letting a different emotion in, something like doubt, or regret.

“Then I came back and I killed everyone.”

Castiel lets out a slow exhale. He shouldn’t be shocked, but he still is. For so long, after the apocalypse, he had wanted to believe Dean and Sam; to believe that this child could live not to fulfill his ominous heritage. To believe in free will, always and for everyone. But sometimes free will meant nothing, and fate just pushed you to the same end via a different route. The child may not have been born a monster, but trauma and a life on the run, living like a hunted animal, had finally turned him into one.

“It was the safest way,” Jesse explains, calmly, offering Castiel an explanation he never asked for. Trying to convince himself, maybe. “I got rid of everyone who ever saw me, and then I made new people. People who would provide me with what I need— food and clothes and everything, without ever asking any questions. People who wouldn’t  _answer_ any questions, either. They’re wired so they can’t even remember how I look. I’d like to see a demon get something out of  _them.”_

“They’re puppets,” Castiel murmurs.

“They’re  _guards,_ ” Jesse bites back. “They’re the cushion between here and outside.”

“It won’t last forever, you know,” Castiel says, quietly. “No matter how… effective your drones are, demons will track you down eventually. It might take months or years, but it will happen. There are other ways.”

“I know,” Jesse says, chewing his lip again. Castiel thinks he can see it trembling.

They sit in silence for a moment, then, abruptly, Jesse asks: “Why did you want to kill me?”

Castiel looks up, mildly surprised. He answers truthfully. He owes this haunted boy that, at least.

“I thought you would side with the demons during the apocalypse.”

“When’s that gonna happen?”

“Already has. Or, hasn’t, rather. It was stopped. We stopped it, my friends and I. You’ve met them before. Dean and Sam Winchester.”

Jesse scrunches up his face, nodding. “The two fake FBI guys?”

“Yes. They saved the world.”

“Oh. Good for them. And I didn’t even side with the demons.”

“Good for everyone. And you didn’t. Thank you for that.” Castiel looks him in the eye, and Jesse stares back for a few seconds. Then he swallows.

“So why do you still want to kill me?” he asks, in a small voice.

“I don’t want to,” Castiel replies, still truthfully. “I wish none of this had ever happened to you. I don’t want you dead, but you’re… an ingredient.”

“A  _what_ ?”

“Ingredient. For a spell. It’s…” Castiel sighs. “An extremely dangerous and unpleasant person tried to take Heaven for himself, and cast all the angels down to Earth. Most of them made it back, but Heaven’s— main doors, if you will, are still locked. No human souls can get in. No one who’s died for the past two years has been able to make it to Heaven.”

“They all go to Hell?”

Castiel shakes his head. “They remain stuck. Somewhere beyond the veil of death, unable to go anywhere. They’re in pain. Some of them go insane. Others choose Hell willingly.”

“That sounds awful.” Jesse shudders minutely, and Castiel wonders at the enduring power of humanity, that even a creature as unusual and dark as this one, with only half a human soul, can find it in himself to feel compassion.

“And me dying… would fix that?”

Castiel looks at him for a long time, then, finally, shakes his head.

“Supposedly. If the spell works. But I can’t do it. Even if I could overpower you, which I obviously can’t, it wouldn’t be right to—“

“I want you to do it.”

The following silence stretches out, charged with uncertainty and danger, crackling in the dingy room.

“Why would you want such a thing?” Castiel asks.

Jesse’s voice is low and broken when he answers. “I just want it all to stop.”

Castiel has nothing to say to that, so Jesse just keeps talking, his voice still low but firmer, more resigned.

“I can’t do it anymore. The running. I miss my parents. I know they’re dead, because the demon that caught up to me two years ago showed me their severed heads.” He hugs himself, suddenly shivering as if he’s cold. “I’m tired of living in this shithole. I’m tired of living this life. It’s not a life. It’s not anything.”

After a short pause, he adds: “And I don’t want to kill anyone else.”

Castiel nods, slowly. He’s seen sacrifice — genuine sacrifice — up close often enough to recognize what true resignation looks like. “If you’re sure.”

“I have conditions,” Jesse adds, hurriedly. “If I do this— if I help fix your Heaven— I get to  _go_ to Heaven. I get to go there and stay forever. I get to be with my mom and dad.”

Castiel considers it. It would take a lot of convincing, but Hannah isn’t unreasonable. It’s a small price to pay for restoring Heaven’s order. “That should be possible.”

 Jesse stares at him dubiously. “Really? Even though I’m half demon? Even though I’ve killed _a whole town_?”

Castiel purses his lips, wry. “I’m afraid Heaven isn’t as incorruptible as humans believe it to be.”

Jesse doesn’t seem very surprised by that. “Everything in this world fucking sucks,” he states, with the unwavering certainty of a normal teenager.

“Some things do,” agrees Castiel. “But at least you’ll be able to be with your parents.”

There’s another silence, longer than before, but this one isn’t as uncomfortable. Castiel imagines Jesse is getting his courage together; talking himself into taking the jump. There’s nothing Castiel could possibly say to make it easier on him, so instead he rests a hand on Jesse’s scrawny shoulder. He can feel the boy jump under his touch, tense up, then lean into it greedily, starved for something he hasn’t known in years.

“Will it hurt?” Jesse asks finally.

“Not if I do it right. It might— burn for a few seconds. That’s all.”

Jesse nods, and his shoulders slump under Castiel’s hand. He can see it now, the bone-deep weariness, the way the world has weighed so heavy on this broken child. How ready to let go he is. The unfairness of it leaves an acidic taste on Castiel’s tongue, but he has long since stopped asking his Father why He allows evil to run through the world. It just is what it is. He puts a hand on Jesse’s matted hair, gently.

“Make it quick.”

“I will.”

“And then I get to go to Heaven. With my family.”

“As soon as I can arrange for Heaven to be fixed.”

“And if you can’t?”

It’s a moot question, one Castiel doesn’t have an answer for. It’s plain to see that Jesse would rather disappear forever than keep on living like this.

“Tell your phony FBI friends I’m sorry I dumped their asses. Then again, they’d probably have been killed by demons if I’d stayed, so. They should be thanking me really.”

Castiel smiles despite himself. “I’ll make sure they know that.”

Jesse nods, his furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips making him look like a worried child. In a way, that’s all he is.

“Do it now,” he says, finally, so Castiel does. There’s a flash of blinding white light, sizzling through Jesse’s eyes and mouth, sweeping away the shadows and cobwebs of the abandoned town hall, and then, as abruptly as it started, it’s over.

_He’s just a child,_ he hears in his head, and it’s Dean’s voice, or it’s Sam’s, or Castiel’s own. It doesn’t matter anymore. There’s a thin wisp of smoke rising from Jesse’s body, and Castiel is so tired, so very tired.

* * *

**Dean**

****

“Bela”, Dean says, his voice steady and reasonable through years of dealing with life-or-death situations, “This isn’t you. You’re not gonna kill me, and you’re not gonna take me to Hell.”

Bela, who’s now standing in front of him, knife still pressed against his pulse point, regards him with cool amusement.

“You’ve tried this kind of bluff with me before, Dean,” she says. “As you’ll recall, it ended with me shooting your brother.”

Dean fights the urge to grimace—instead, he lifts a finger, with a winning smile: “But you didn’t  _kill_ him.”

“Yes, well,” Bela shrugs, her eyes flashing black as she shoots him a cold smile, “we all make mistakes.”

“We are not the enemy, Bela. We never were. You know that. We only ever tried to help. We would have helped you with the hellhounds too, if you had told us.” Dean means it, too. For all that Bela had been a pain in the ass, he wouldn’t have wished the torments she suffered onto anyone, not when he knows them firsthand.

“I know everything feels different, now. Like you could do anything you want and never feel bad again. I know what Hell—“

“You don’t know anything about Hell,” she snaps, vicious, letting her cool exterior fall aside for a moment. The knife slips, drawing a single drop of blood from Dean’s neck.

“I know  _everything_ about Hell,” Dean replies, his voice a little rough with surprise and with the memory of it. “Because I’ve been there. The same year, in fact, only a few months after they got to you. I was tied to a rack and tortured, just like you. Do you happen to know my old pal Alastair?”

He sees her flinch at the name and knows he’s struck home. “He had a taste for me. Said I was his favorite, his pupil. He almost got me to turn into a demon, too.”

“But you didn’t,” Bela comments, skeptical.

“No thanks to me. I got busted out. By angels, as it happens.”

“Bullshit,” Bela scoffs, the word sounding unfamiliar in her posh accent.

“That’s how I reacted too.” Dean nods, careful not to cut himself on the blade.

Bela shakes her head, a disdainful grimace painting itself on her face, as if she’s reminding herself of their respective roles in this. “Well, if you’re buddies with the angels, then it’s one more reason for me to get rid of you, then, isn’t it? As you might have noticed, I’m—”

“A demon, yeah, I know. Been there.”

“You _just_ said—“

“Not that time. Later. Last year, actually.”

Bela’s disbelief is palpable, but it also has the effect of loosening her grip on the knife.

“So you’re saying you died twice?”

“Oh, sister, twice ain’t nothing.”

“You don’t seriously expect me to believe that.”

Dean just stares at her, unblinking.

Apparently, that does it, because Bela pulls back her knife hand — though she quickly gets out a gun and points that at him instead — and takes a step back, regarding him with interest.

“If you really  _were_ a demon, how come you’re not one now?”

“I was cured,” Dean says. Bela cocks the gun.

“Now I _know_ you’re lying. Goodbye, Dean.”

“Wait! Just— just wait a second.” Dean raises his hands. “Why would I lie? What do I have to gain? You’re gonna kill me anyway, aren’t you?” He takes a step forward, well-aware he’s playing a risky game. “Just following your orders, like a good little employee. Who put you up to this, huh? Oh, don’t tell me. Was it Crowley?”

Bela’s face goes blank with uncertainty for a moment, the obvious surprise of how much Dean knows taking her aback, and that’s when Dean spots his opening. In a fraction of a second, he’s kicked the gun out of her hand and has Ruby’s knife pressed into her side, right between the ribs.

“You bastard,” Bela growls.

“I asked you a question.”

“You said ‘don’t tell me’. Go to Hell and figure it out yourself.”

Dean pushes the knife a little farther into her soft flank, though not hard enough to break skin. He lets his voice do all the cutting.

“Tell me, Bela. Tell me if you’re working for Crowley, because if you are, you have a lot of more than this knife to worry about. There is no one —  _no one_ — Crowley will not screw over.”

Her eyes flash black again, angry. “You don’t get it. He’s the one who got me off the rack— he said he’d put an end to Lilith’s rule. That he was gonna give me a chance to get out. That I could leave Hell if I just—“

“Did his dirty work for him? Did Crowley also tell you that  _he_ did nothing to stop Lilith? That it was Sam who killed her, Sam who  _dragged Lucifer into the deepest pit of Hell_ , while Crowley was hiding like a cockroach, ready to step up and pick the Hell Princess tiara when it was ripe for the taking?”

Bela’s eyes remain obsidian black, her teeth bared, but a tiny muscle quivers in her cheek, and Dean takes that as his encouragement to press on.

“Believe me, Crowley will stop at nothing — will spare no one — as long as it serves his plans. You don’t know a cure exists because he doesn’t  _want_ demons to know. Because we used it on him, and it almost worked.”

A blink, and Bela’s eyes resurface, her expression puzzled. “It’s true, then? He disappeared for a while and people were saying he’d become a junkie. That he was addicted to—“

“Human blood,” Dean finishes for her. “That’s the cure. Well, that and some Latin crap.”

A moment of charged silence goes by. There’s something conflicted in Bela’s eyes, and Dean is almost sure he recognizes it from his own time as a demon. On one side, the human part of her soul, pushed down and weakened, crying out against the  _wrongness_ of Bela, the twisted darkness inside her; on the other, the black swirling smoke, wanting  _more_ — more blood, more rampage, more evil.

Dean remembers how it had ended for him, what choice he’d made. He wishes he could believe Bela would be better than him. He wishes it was a chance he could afford to take. Instead, he tries for a different bluff.

“You know I can’t let you go,” he says, quietly. “You know what I do. What I am.”

“I remember, yes. You’re a hunter. I also clearly remember telling you what I thought of your category.” Bela’s eyes are wary, and as hard as flint.

Dean allows himself a small, unhappy smile. “I do. Sadly, that won’t make much of a difference.” He grips Bela’s shoulder tight, poising Ruby’s knife for a deadly hit, when—

“Wait!” Bela cries out. “Wait, don’t do it. I want the cure. I want to be cured. Please.”

A ferocious kernel of hope surfaces inside Dean, that maybe this will end up right for once, that maybe he could manage to complete the third trial  _and_ remedy another painful loose end of his past. He fights to bury it.

“It would be easier to just kill you,” he says, dispassionate. “We can’t go around injecting demons with our blood left, right and center.”

And then, he sees what he’s been waiting for: that calculating gleam in Bela’s eyes, the one they always failed to recognize whenever she’d screwed them over.

“I can give you Crowley,” she says. “It sounds like you hate him, but I bet he’s not easy to track down, is he? Well, I can deliver him to you.”

This is better than anything Dean could have expected. He can scarcely believe his luck, his breath almost gushing out of him in relief.

“And how do I know I can trust you? No offense, sweetheart, but there’s some pretty crap history there,” he says, dragging the blade to the front of Bela’s stomach.

“Well, if you were looking at that history,” she snaps, grabbing his hand over the knife’s handle, “You’d realize I always go for the deal that’s most profitable to  _me_ . If I cheat you with this Crowley thing, then you and your brother will chase me down. And while you’re not the sharpest tools in the shed, you’re certainly  _dedicated_ , so I believe you’ll eventually find me. I’ve spent my entire life on the run from people. I want it to  _stop._ ”

She looks straight into his eyes, challenging him to call her out, to call her a liar. He doesn’t. It’s dumb, it’s unbelievably  _stupid_ , but his gut is telling him she’s for real, and his gut has served him well during three decades of hunting life. He lifts the blade up a fraction, away from her body.

“Once I’m cured,” she says, slowly, carefully, “I’ll be free to go? I’m gonna be human again, same as I was before I— before all that?”

“Well, we won’t keep you. You’re free to go on your way as long as you don’t get in ours. You won’t be the  _same_ , but yes, your soul will be human again. You’ll live as a human for however long you live.”

“What about the deal? The one I made with Lilith?” She has a shrewd, unrelenting look to her: a businesswoman trying to close on a big transaction.

“Gone. You did the time, paid for the crime.”

“You mean…” she seems to falter for a moment, as if she, too, thinks she’s stumbled onto something too good to be true. “You mean I don’t ever have to go back to Hell?”

Dean purses his lips. “Not unless you’re dumb enough to land your sorry ass there all over again.”

“Oh, I will be a positive saint,” she grins. It would be more reassuring if she hadn’t sported black eyes a few moments ago, but before Dean’s expressed any skepticism, she holds a hand out.

“I believe you’ve got yourself a deal, Dean Winchester.”

For what is definitely not the first, and almost certainly won’t be the last time, Dean questions his judgment. Then he thinks  _fuck it_ ,  _we’re fucking desperate_ , and shakes Bela’s hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Castiel**

****

Returning to the bunker with Jesse’s heart feels like much less of a victory than Castiel had hoped. He understands serving the greater good, but he wishes it didn’t have to be so morally complex. For a moment, he almost allows himself to feel nostalgia for his early days in the garrison: doing what he was told, repeating the same orders to others, never feeling any trace of doubt.

That, of course, was Before: before Dean Winchester came tearing through like a hurricane, making him question everything he had ever believed to be right, opening his eyes to the fact that sometimes, even though you act for the greater good, the collateral damage is simply too immense. That sometimes fighting the good fight means suffering for your decisions.

If Castiel’s being honest with himself, he will never be able to regret the Before. After knowing Dean, there is no unknowing him; and if there was, Castiel would rather die than do it. He can put up with the heavy choices, if it means having free will; he can put up with most anything if it means having Dean in his life.

So he drags himself towards the war room, still feeling heavy and tired, his gruesome prize held in a beer cooler. Sam and Charlie are sitting at one of the long tables, researching something at a computer while sharing a carton of fried chicken.

“Cas!” Charlie greets him as soon as she hears him enter. “How did it go? Are you okay?”

Castiel plunks himself down opposite them, reaching for a chicken wing. He isn’t really hungry, not like humans are, but it’s something to do with his hands, and he could use the strange comfort that fried foods seem to provide.

“It went...” he stops himself. ‘Well’ doesn’t seem like a fitting word, not for ending the life of a haunted, hunted kid. “I was successful,” he amends, gesturing to the beer cooler. “In the end, he asked me to do it.”

“Wow,” Charlie says under her breath, her face falling. “Life must have done a number on that kid. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel replies. It’s half a lie, but Castiel supposes half a truth is better than nothing. He chances a glance at Sam, whose expression is pale and stony. A small muscle twitches in his jaw, and Castiel knows he’s thinking about Jesse, because this is what it means to be a Winchester: no matter how many lives they save, Sam and Dean can never forgive themselves the ones they don’t.

“Did you make any progress with Metatron?” Castiel asks, hoping that business talk will distract Sam from the matter of Jesse’s death. It seems to work, and Sam exhales through his mouth, frustrated.

“Jack squat. Asshole refused to tell us anything about the second ingredient until we’d brought him the first. Said we would have no excuse to keep him alive otherwise.”

“Well, he isn’t  _wrong_ ,” Castiel comments wryly, only half-joking. It gets a smirk out of Sam and a snort from Charlie. He counts both as a success.

“Charlie thinks she found something, though,” Sam adds, nodding in the direction of the computer.

“Well, it’s just an idea,” Charlie says, “but I’ve been thinking and... you know, these biblical trial thingies are always more fast-and-loose than they are strictly  _literal._ I was going insane trying to figure out what would be the exact counterpart to a Cupid’s bow – you know, an angelic weapon that makes humans fall in love – and coming up absolutely blank. Then it hit me that perhaps I was being too specific.” Her voice is gaining enthusiasm as she speaks, and despite his weariness and bad mood, Castiel feels a rush of fondness for her.

“Go on,” he says.

“Right, so I thought—what if what we need to find a counterpart for is simply an angel who can affect humans? Like, affect their feelings. Love, hate, jealousy, anger. And I asked myself, what kind of human can affect other humans like that? Control their behaviour through their powers?”

It only takes a moment before Castiel draws in a sharp breath, understanding. “A witch.”

“A witch,” Charlie nods. “Which, conveniently, we happen to already have one of in our storage room.”

“I mean, just think of the attack dog spell,” Sam adds. “Rowena can turn humans against other humans by working her magic. That’s kind of the opposite of what a Cupid does.”

Castiel nods, then stops in his tracks. “But the original spell needed a Cupid’s  _weapon._ What would we even take from Rowena?”

“We have a theory for that too,” Sam says, though he sounds a little more hesitant. “Charlie?”

“Well, think about it like this... Rowena didn’t _always_ have a weapon, but now she _does_ have one. A weapon that wasn’t always hers, but that only she can use—that only she can read.”

“The Book of the Damned,” Castiel murmurs. “You think...?”

Charlie purses her lips. “I think that these ancient spells usually seem to be a lot more about  _intent_ than they are about factual objects. I kinda think it’s worth a try, but I don’t know. I’m not sure. What do you think?”

Castiel considers it for a few moments. Then he says, “I think it’s worth a try too.”

“Then we’re decided,” Sam says, rapping his knuckles on the tabletop twice, businesslike. After a moment’s pause, he gestures at the cooler, his face souring a little. “But first, let’s take that to our favourite prisoner, shall we?”

“He’s definitely not  _my_ favourite,” Castiel states moodily, which gets a chuckle out of Charlie.

* * *

**Dean**

****

“You don’t look so hot.” Bela’s voice reaches him from the motel room as he’s splashing water on his face in the bathroom.

“Way harsh, Tai,” Dean replies, in mock-offense. “And here I thought I remembered you suggesting we have angry sex.”

Bela  _hmms_ from where she’s sitting on the bed. “I didn’t mean physically, though you could do with trimming that scruff. Oh, and offer still stands, by the way.”

Dean thinks about it — he doesn’t  _think_ about it, but he thinks about her words — and wonders whether there was ever a situation in which he’d have accepted. Once, probably. Before Hell, because she was attractive. After Hell, to try and fill up the void. Just not now.

“Nah, thanks. I kinda have a lot on my plate.”

“End of the world’s the best time to get down and dirty.” Bela leans against the doorframe with a sly smirk.

“Couldn’t agree more. Answer’s still no, though.”

“Is it because I’m a demon? That’s really racist, you know.” Dean can tell she isn’t serious about this, she just enjoys taunting him. But he decides to be honest anyway, because he has to be honest with  _someone_ at  _some_ point, so why not make it the least likely person ever?

“Yes. And no. I wouldn’t do this with you being how you are now, but I wouldn’t if you were human either. It’s just...” he sighs. “There’s someone that I. There’s someone.”

Her eyebrows shoot up to meet her perfect hairline. “Good grief. Dean Winchester, settled down in the monogamous life? Are you angling for a white picket fence?”

“Funny you should say that,” Dean grouses, “because I actually tried that too. Didn’t work out.”

“No offense, but I’m not surprised. I did mention hunters are a little touched in the head, didn’t I?”

“You did. Which was super objective insight coming from a serial thief of the occult. Anyway, this isn’t that kind of thing. This guy isn’t much the white picket fence type.”

He doesn’t realize what he’s said until he sees Bela’s eyes go wide.

“Did you just say  _this guy_ ? Emphasis on  _guy_ ?”

Shit. He definitely did. He tries to tamp down on the rising panic, except— there is none. He can’t find it in him to freak about accidentally—  _coming out_ or something. He’s standing in a motel room, talking to a demon who’s helping him, even though she fucked him over all the time as a human; he has a curse on his arm that might make him a demon too, which he can’t take off because that would completely destroy the world, and he’s trying to close down Hell while his brother is working to restore Heaven.

All in fucking all, he can deal with admitting he’s into a dude.

_Except,_ he thinks,  _he’s not really a dude. He’s a supernova made flesh._

_Except,_ he thinks immediately after,  _I’m not_ into _him, I’m_ in love _with him, and it’s tearing me apart from the inside out._

But Bela doesn’t need to know that, so he just shrugs.

“Yeah. I did.”

Bela whistles, low and impressed. “We really need to catch up. You know, like old friends do.”

Dean snorts. “Except we’ve never been friends.”

“Details,” she waves him off. “Besides, I’m about to trap the King of Hell for you, so I’d say that makes me more than a friend. Which brings us to my original point.” She crosses her arms and stares at him appraisingly, all playfulness gone.

“What I meant to say is that you look like you’re coming down with a bad case of something, and I wouldn’t want you to be completely useless when I lure Crowley to you. Because if you’re not on top of your game, he’ll kill you, which would be a shame, and then torture me, which is definitely  _not something I’m up for._ ”

“Relax. I’ll be ready.” He doesn’t tell her that if he looks poorly now, it’s only going to get worse after he completes the second trial. He only trusts her so much, and he can’t waste his chance to get Crowley.

“Really? Even after you do your second little hat trick?”

_She_ was _always annoyingly smart,_ Dean thinks with an inner sigh of frustration.

“I  _said_ it’s going to be fine. You think I actually want to fuck up this whole thing? We’ve got one shot. Why don’t you worry about your own side of the plan?”

Bella rolls her eyes. “I will tell him I have a lead on the demon tablet. That I heard a short man with curly grey hair talk about it.”

“Make sure you describe him as an asshole. That way Crowley will actually believe it’s Metatron.”

“Right. Anyway. I will tell him I know where this man and the demon tablet are, and I will lead him to this motel room...”

“Where I’ll be waiting with a bunch of devil traps and enough holy water to baptize a small village.”

“Sounds foolproof.” Sarcasm drips heavy from her polished voice.

“Are you in or out?” Dean barks.

“Is that what you ask your boyfriend?”

“Bela, so help me God—“

“Relax! I’m in, I’m in. Well, actually I’m out. As in out of here. Make sure you have the traps ready, and don’t pass out or anything, because I won’t be able to come in once the traps are in place.”

She walks off with easy confidence, and Dean runs an exasperated hand over his face.

_Right. Time to get to work._

Dean reaches for his knife. It’s possible, he thinks, that this might not work considering Heaven is closed for business, but it’s a possibility he can’t bring himself to consider. After all, the trial was about rescuing a righteous soul from Hell; there was no specific clause about the soul being delivered to Heaven.

For Ellie’s sake, Dean hopes she gets there anyways.

He cuts his forearm open, the silver-white shimmer of Ellie’s soul breaking out of his skin and darting towards the open window. Holding a rag to his arm to staunch the bleeding, Dean quickly follows it outside, and watches it soar higher and higher, eventually disappearing into the atmosphere. He feels a small wave of peacefulness crash over him. This is good. He did a good thing, for a change. He’d missed the family business line —  _saving people_ , and all that. However, the relief is short-lived when he remembers the next part.

With a grimace, he gets back into the motel room and sits on one of the beds, trying to steady himself for what’s about to happen. With a deep breath, he pronounces: “ _Kah-nah-om-dar_ .”

If he’d thought it had felt bad before, this is almost unreal. Nausea bowls him over once, twice, then again and again, all his muscles spasming, pain shooting through his nerves.  _Make it stop,_ he thinks dizzily, as his lungs burn and fight for air, his head spinning madly as he blacks out for a couple seconds.

It takes about five minutes for the effect to wear off a little. Dean is entirely covered in a clammy sweat, his bones aching everywhere. He understands with dismay what Sammy had meant – everything  _does_ smell like rotting meat. He tries to steady his breathing and keep his stomach from revolting against him. Then he starts setting the devil traps.

* * *

**Castiel**

****

The moment they stepped into Rowena’s cell, they were all prepared for things to take a turn for the unpleasant.

Metatron, after a bit of stalling, had grudgingly conceded the Book of the Damned would work. Castiel suspected what Metatron really resented, more than the questioning itself, was not being able to do another one of his dramatic reveals while treating them all like imbeciles.

However, that left a substantial problem: the book held the spell that could cure Dean of the Mark. They needed Rowena to translate the spell for them through Charlie’s codex. But that was obviously going to prove difficult.

“Are you insane? Have you  _completely_ lost your minds?” Rowena was shrieking at present. “This book is the most powerful magical weapon ever created by man, and you want  _me_ to help you tear it down?”

“That is exactly why we need it!” Charlie snapped. “But we have to write down the spell to save Dean first. Which means  _you_ have to write it down.”

Rowena scoffed. “And why don’t  _you_ do it, since you appear to be the resident prodigy?”

Charlie rolled her eyes impatiently. “Just because I’m a computer genius doesn’t mean I can read an obscure ancient language! Some of us haven’t had centuries to learn those, you know.”

“How rude,” Rowena said, daintily flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Anyway, I am so very sorry, but I can’t help you. Well, I can, I just won’t.”

“You  _will_ ,” Castiel countered, stepping forward. “Or you won’t like the consequences.”

Rowena just eyed him scornfully. “Go ahead. Kill me. The cure for your precious Dean dies with me.”

That much was uncomfortably true.

“We could always just torture you,” Sam pointed out.

“I would like to see you try.” Rowena’s glare was defiant. “As my son can attest, I do not fold as easily as your grotesque little friend in the dungeon next door.”

Sam sighs, wearily. “What is your price?”

“I give you the spell, and you give me the book,” she replies immediately. “To keep.”

“Nice try,” Sam drawls. “The book is going. We already told you. There’s too much at stake here.”

“I thought you wanted to save your brother.”

“I do, but not as much as I want to fix the Veil and send all the angels back to Heaven. So if I have to pick, sorry. Book’s going.”

Castiel shoots him an affronted glare, and he's about to protest, when Sam catches his eye, meaningfully.

_It’s a bluff,_ Castiel realizes. He’s never been too good at those— except for the one time he had been, and it had almost ruined him forever.

“So, the way I see it now,” Sam continues, and he’s good at this, so good Castiel almost believes the coldness in his voice, “if you won’t give us the spell, I might as well just kill you now and save us all the trouble.”

That gives Rowena pause. She seems to consider this for a little, mind working feverishly to find an angle she can work. Eventually, she sags back against the chair, wrists struggling against her chains in frustration. “Fine. You win this one, Samuel.”

“So? Will you write down the spell to remove the Mark?” Charlie prods.

“Aye. But on one condition.” Rowena sits back up, looking at all three of them in turn. “If I do this, and let you burn the book – which is a  _sin_ , if you ask me – I walk out of here a free woman.”

“After you do the spell,” Sam adds.

“No,” she shakes her head, glaring at him. “Forget it. You’ve been delaying setting me free for far too long. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. I give you the spell and  _I walk away._ You can do your dirty work for yourselves.”

They exchange an uneasy look. They know it’s not a  _good_ deal, but Rowena looks ready to die rather than relent on it, and they don’t have enough time to afford the luxury of haggling.

“Alright,” Sam concludes grimly. “Now get the hell to work.”

* * *

“This is a really bad decision,” Charlie comments later, as they watch Sam unchain Rowena and blindfold her.

“I know,” Castiel replies, sourly.

“It’s gonna come back to bite us all in the ass,” Charlie adds as Sam leads Rowena out to drive her a safe distance.

“I know,” Castiel repeats, sighing.

“Well, at least we have the spell,” Charlie notes, visibly trying to force some optimism into her voice. She goes over the sheet of paper, frowning. “It’s pretty complicated stuff. Do you think you can get all these ingredients?”

Castiel accepts the paper from her and looks at it. They’re rare ingredients, but they’re not impossible. Once, he remembers, he used to fly to the opposite end of the world and back, just to retrieve ingredients Dean and Sam needed. All in the blink of an eye. Now, he’s going to have to drive, and it will take unbearably long. Not a day goes by that Castiel doesn’t miss his wings. But, yes. He can find these things. Even if he has to do it the human way.

“It will take me a while,” he says to Charlie, “but I believe I can find them.”

“Find what?”

Dean’s voice takes them both by surprise, and they turn quickly in the direction it came from. Castiel is even more surprised to find Dean is not alone.

Behind him, bound in chains, is a short, stocky figure with a dark bag over his head. It’s a figure Castiel has seen too many times for his liking, and more than enough to recognize him even without seeing his face.

“ _Crowley_ ?” he exclaims. There’s a muffled groan in response from under the bag, which Castiel ignores. “How did you get him? Why did you go after him alone? Why didn’t you call me or Sam?” he asks, and before his anger can get the better of him, adds: “And who is  _that?”_

By that, he means the woman standing to the side of Dean, a little behind him, arms crossed in a display of nonchalance. Castiel knows that by human standards she would be considered very attractive—and how ridiculous, he thinks, self-deprecatingly, that in a situation like this he should feel  _jealousy_ —but then his eyes focus properly and he sees her real face, tucked just behind the human one.

“A demon,” he growls, instantly on his guard.

The woman shoots him a bored look, but Castiel can still see a glimmer of alarm in her eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry. I come in peace. Dean, sweetie, why don’t you tell him?”

“This is Bela Talbot,” Dean explains, flatly. He looks very poorly, Castiel notices, his heart flipping sickly in his chest; he’s a shade of pale bordering on greenish, and there are dark purple circles under his eyes. “She’s—well, I was going to say ‘an old friend’, but we both know that’d be a lie.”

“Very mature,” Bela shoots back. Castiel is confused by the whole exchange, and is even more confused the next moment, when Bela’s expression perks up and she elbows Dean sharply. “Wait, is this  _him_ ?”

_Am I him? Am I_ what _?,_ Castiel wonders, frowning at her.

Charlie is watching the whole exchange with barely concealed interest. It’s evident she knows who Bela is, and judging by the look on her face, she also has at least an idea of what her coded exchange with Dean means. It’s extremely frustrating.

“Stop being a dick,” Dean mutters to Bela. Then he turns to Castiel with a small smile. “Cas, Bela here is the third trial, so why don’t you show her to our coziest dungeon?”

“You have  _dungeons_ ? Oh, Dean. I always knew you boys were tacky, but—“

“Can it, Bela,” Dean snarls. “Wait, where’s Sam?”

“He went into town to release Rowena,” Charlie offers, hesitant.

Dean blinks. “And why ever the fuck would he do that?”

Charlie takes a deep breath. “Well, see, it’s about the heaven spell—“

“I can see we all have some catching up to do,” Castiel cuts in, a little more dry than he’d intended, “but we can do that later in the war room. Charlie, take this demon—“

“I have a name, you know,” Bela points out snidely. Castiel ignores her.

“Take this demon in the dungeon where Rowena was. I’ll chain Crowley in the one with the larger devil’s trap. And  _you_ ,” he concludes, pointing to Dean, “go have something to eat before you pass out.”

Dean snorts a little, giving him a wink. “Why, Cas, I get all swoony when you take charge like that.”

“Oh, for the love of hell,” Bela groans, loudly, stalking over to Charlie. “This is embarrassing. Whoever you are, take me away from here before they have sex right in front of us.” Charlie blushes a little, and Castiel feels heat rise into his cheeks as well.

When he turns to look at Dean, he finds him flustered, too.

“Is she always like that?” Castiel mutters.

“Should’ve seen her when she was human,” Dean grouses back, before stomping upstairs towards the kitchen.

* * *

**Dean**

 

By the time Sam returns, Dean’s had time to catch up Cas and Charlie on his deal with Bela, and hear about theirs with Rowena as well. It falls to Charlie to fill Sam in while Dean reluctantly finishes his small pot of chicken broth.

Sam sits down, scrubbing a hand over his face. “So, we’re almost there, huh? One trial to go, and one final ingredient for the Heaven spell.”

“Well, don’t forget the spell to take off the Mark,” Charlie reminds him. “We still need the ingredients for that too.”

“Right, of course.” Sam sighs, then turns to Dean. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“How do you  _think_ I’m feeling?” Dean gripes, plonking his spoon into the bowl. “It’s like the worst brand of swine flu ever invented.”

“I remember,” Sam grimaces. “Think you can pull through the final quarter?”

Dean doesn’t know if he can, but  _can_ has never been an option in their lives. There’s simply the work, and what they’ve gotta do to bring it home. This isn’t any different; it’s just on a slightly more cosmic scale.

“I’m good,” Dean says. It’s a blatant lie, but looking at the faces around him – Sam, Charlie, Cas, all fighting alongside with him – it feels like less of one.

By the time they come to stand before Crowley, Dean’s face is a mask of determination.

He feels completely focused. This is where his road has brought him; the road that started when he sold his soul for Sam’s life, or perhaps when his home burnt down, or — who knows — even millennia ago, when the archangels decided to breed him as a vessel, hell if he knows.

Regardless of where it started for him, this is how it ends.

“Are you ready?” Sam asks him, his face pulled taut, as he grabs a hold of the chain around Crowley’s neck. Crowley drifts back to awareness long enough to blink, bleary and hostile.

“You will pay for this,” he croaks, and spits a mouthful of blood to the floor. “Whatever you’re about to do, I promise you, boys— there’ll be  _hell_ to pay.”

Dean steps closer, shaking his head, as a slow smile spreads on his face.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” he tells Crowley, savoring each word as it rolls off his tongue. “There will be no Hell, not anymore.”

Crowley blinks in confusion. “What in the bloody world is he on about?” he asks the room at large. There’s rising worry in his snarky tone, and Dean lets himself cherish the moment a while longer. This has been a long time coming. Too long, in fact.

“Don’t worry,” he says eventually. “There’ll always be a  _little_ Hell for you. And you’ll still be king. In fact, even better, because guess what?” He quickly grabs at Crowley’s arm and yanks the sleeve of his jacket back, exposing the crook of his elbow.

“I’m about to make you a Knight.”

Crowley barely has time to widen his eyes in alarm, and then Dean slams his palm to Crowley’s forearm, a blinding red glow exploding from the contact. When he releases his hold, the Mark of Cain glares angrily from Crowley’s arm, seared into his flesh.

“Enjoy, bitch,” Dean says, his breaths coming short.

“What— what is the  _meaning_ of this?” Crowley exclaims.

“Well, you know, you seemed so _keen_ for Dean to have this,” Sam intervenes, “so we figured you’d like one of your own.”

Crowley’s head swivels to face Sam, his puzzlement and mistrust increasing by the second.

“ _This_ is your big plan? Your secret strategy? To give me a weapon that will make me even more powerful?”

Sam shrugs, smiling, which only adds to Crowley’s discomfort.

“You realize, I already  _am_ a demon. And I have no problem whatsoever with the amount of killing it will take to keep the curse fed.”

“You won’t be killing anyone anymore,” Cas states, his voice cold and firm. “No one aside from your own filthy kind, that is.”

“Oh, for—” Crowley tugs furiously at the chains around his wrists. “Will any of you buffoons tell me  _what the hell is going on_ ?”

“That’s just it, Crowley,” Dean replies, grinning. “ _Hell._ I sure hope you do like it there, because you’re gonna be stuck there a really,  _really_ long time.”

* * *

“ _Man_ , that felt good!” Dean exults after exiting the dungeon. He’s about to pump a fist in the air, but is interrupted by a fit of coughing. He can sense Sam and Cas eyeing him worriedly, even without looking, so he does his best to straighten his shoulders and take measured breaths.

“Yeah, well, don’t sing victory too soon,” Sam retorts, but he’s smirking too. “We still have to deal with the other asshole.”

“Right, sure. The big reveal. The last ingredient.” Dean nods. There’s a weird, unsteady feeling in the pit of his stomach, unrelated to the illness. It vaguely reminds him of butterflies, but not the cutesy teenage crush butterflies— those dark brown ones that come out at night, the ones that always make you shudder when they brush your skin. It’s a feeling like maybe he knows what the last ingredient will be, maybe he’s always known, but the word keeps escaping his memory.

“Well, I, for one, can’t wait to be done with him,” Cas mutters, sourly. He has more reason than anyone to be mad at Metatron, considering he was tricked by him into making all the angels fall, his grace stolen; but it seems to have taken on a new level of ferocity since Metatron stabbed Dean, and it makes Dean grin a little. He likes when Cas is all fierce and badass, and he likes it in a completely different way when he’s doing that  _for Dean._

It’s not something Dean’s ever been given before, that level of devotion, but he thinks he very well might get used to being on the receiving end of it. Not that he has the time to, of course. His eyes suddenly prickle, and Dean rubs at them in frustration, telling himself it’s just the sickness, just the trials, just his life.

* * *

“Well, well,” Metatron sing-songs. “Here we are.” He leans forward into his chair, beady eyes gleaming in amusement. “Are we all very excited?”

“The only thing I’m excited about is the prospect of not having to see your ugly mug anymore,” Dean tells him. “Come on, Chuckles, spit it out.”

Metatron sniffs. “You know what’s wrong with the human race this days? No sense of drama. You all want to skip the teasing and go right on to the pleasing.”

From the corner, Charlie makes a gagging sound.

“But fair enough,” Metatron continues pointedly, “since you’re the ones in charge… at the moment. The third ingredient. The final missing piece. It’s rather obvious at this point, isn’t it?”

“Get the hell on with it,” Sam hisses. Dean thinks he might be one step away from a breakdown.

“Well, the third ingredient of  _my_ original spell, was, as you’ll recall, the grace of an angel in love with a human,” Metatron enounces, like a star chef. “An angel grace to send the angel among humans. It stands to reason then that its polar opposite, the last thing we need to send the angels  _back_ from humanity into heaven, is the soul of a human. Not just any soul, obviously, as I’m sure you all  _finally_ get.”

For the briefest moment, Dean has the sensation Metatron looks at him with a wicked smile, but he might have hallucinated it. His head is roaring anyway, because he knows what’s coming, has always known, ever since they started down this road; it’s just the wait that’s unbearable. He can’t take this. He wishes Metatron would never finish his sentence; he wishes Metatron would finish it right now.

“The soul of a human in love with an angel,” he hears himself say from very far away. And then, very quiet but very clear, as if he’s listening to himself in high definition:

“My soul.”

A hush falls over the room.

No one is surprised, not really — honestly, Dean doesn’t blame them — but they’re still quiet, as if hearing it out loud rattled them. All but Cas.

God, Cas.

Cas is staring at him with wonder and heartbreak written all over his face.

“That wasn’t exactly how I planned to tell you,” Dean hears himself say. He thinks he means for it to defuse some of the tension, but it mostly sounds hysteric in his ears.

“Dean,” Cas says, and it sounds like he’s pleading and saying grace at the same time, and Dean can’t stand any of it.

He’s dimly aware of Charlie mumbling  _we should go_ in the background, as she tries to push his Sasquatch brother out of the dungeon. Dean appreciates the effort, but it’s kind of pointless, because by this point, he desperately needs some fresh air himself.

“Cas, don’t—“ he shakes his head, the dizziness returning full force. “Can we just please get out of here?”

They end up — somehow, and yet again — standing outside the bunker, leaning against the Impala, soaking up her jet-black comforting presence.

The memory of the last time they talked like this, in the quiet evening air, with Baby’s warm metal at their back, is still vivid in Dean’s mind. As is the memory of what happened after. He swallows, heat coursing through him. It’s a very good memory, but now is not the time or place to reenact it. He takes a deep breath, trying to think clearly through the fever that hasn’t left him since completing the second trial.

“Listen, Cas,” Dean says. “I want you to have it.”

Cas looks at him sharply. “The Impala?”

“What? No!” It’s such a ridiculous, anticlimactic moment Dean almost starts laughing. “No, Sammy’s getting Baby.”

Cas nods, careful. “I assumed as much. I think that would be for the best, too.”

“You—” Dean gives up and shakes his head, looking fondly at Cas.

“My soul, Cas. I meant you can have my soul. For your spell.”

This time Cas  _does_ get it, and his eyes go so wide and lost Dean finds himself wishing he hadn’t.

“You can’t be serious,” Cas says, low and dangerous, as if trying to hold back an outburst of emotion.

“Why not?” Dean shrugs. “It’s the last ingredient, and it’s not like I’ll be needing it.”

“Don’t joke about this,” Cas warns, “Don’t you dare— don’t you  _dare_ pawn off your soul like it doesn’t mean anything. Your soul is worth  _everything,_ and I won’t have you joking about it, or about your death—” Cas’s voice catches on the last word, and he has to look down for a moment, blinking tears out of his eyes, his fists clenched and shaking with anger. Dean leaves him be. It seems like the kind thing to do.

“I’m not joking about it, Cas,” he says after a while. “But let’s face facts: by this time tomorrow, I won’t have anywhere to store a soul  _in.”_

Cas makes a low, wounded noise. It threatens to tear the heart out of Dean’s chest, but he can’t let it sway him; not now.

“I can’t turn back now, man,” he says, softly, as much to convince himself as Cas. “I  _can’t._ Closing Hell, that’s on me. It’s my responsibility.”

“Not _everything’s_ your responsibility,” Cas tells him, like he had once before; the same words, but the conviction is multiplied tenfold, and carries an edge of desperation.

“Well,  _this_ is,” Dean retorts. “I’m the one who stopped it last time, because I couldn’t let go of Sam. But this way— this is better. It’s as it should be.”

“You’re the only one who thinks that,” Cas growls, but Dean just talks over him— God, he’s so tired, too tired for fighting.

“Besides,” he says, raising his voice, “Even if I  _did_ turn back now, it would be pointless. Look at me, Cas.” Dean gestures in the general direction of his face, the sickly green tint it has at all times, its pallor and the bags under his eyes. He looks like death warmed over — feels like it, too — and he knows that’s exactly what’s in store for him.

Cas does look at him, then: long and searching, and endlessly pained.

“I’m done for,” Dean says. “What I have, even you can’t heal. You know that. You told Sam that much.”

Cas looks down, nods his assent. His shoulders are slumped, like the weight of the world has been placed on them in the last five minutes.

“I gotta do this. And I gotta do this right, and that means fixing all I can fix.”

“Heaven is not your problem, Dean,” Cas protests, defeat slowly creeping into his voice.

“True,” Dean shrugs. “But it’s yours. And I think we’ve already established I, um. I care about you.” Looking down, he works the toe of his boot into the gravel and kicks at a loose pebble.  _God, Winchester, you’re pushing 37 and knocking on death’s door, quit acting like a sixth grader._

Cas smiles, but it’s sad.

“That’s incredibly generous, and nothing less than I would expect from you.” His voice, Dean thinks, holds pride and reproach at the same time; it’s hard to tell, because Cas mostly sounds grieved. “But you really shouldn’t do this. Dean, your soul is… it’s your most intimate possession. You can’t just keep giving it for the people you love.”

There’s that word again. It’s kind of ridiculous that Cas, who’s only been human for less than one short year, has mastered the art of saying it, when Dean still can’t bring himself to. He’d probably never even have come clean, if Metatron wasn’t such a dick.

“Dean,” Cas repeats, pleadingly, “are you listening to me? Your soul should be yours to keep. Don’t you want to go to Heaven? Don’t you want to see your family again?”

That’s one blow that hits close to home. For a moment, Dean sways on his feet, bowled over by the memory of his mom, the phantom sensation of her gentle hand combing through his hair. He thinks of her now, and he thinks of his dad as well, despite all the shit the man put him through. He thinks of Jo and Ellen and Kevin, of Pamela and Ash. He does wants to see them— God, does he want to.

But that’s not  _all_ of his family, is it?

“Well, Sammy won’t be there,” he says, “nor will Charlie, not for a long time at least. That is, if they know what’s good for them. And if they showed up early, I’d kick their asses back down to Earth myself, so help me God.”

Cas snorts a little, softly.

“Besides,” Dean adds, more soberly, “would you even be allowed to visit? I mean… to hop into my side of Heaven?”

Cas opens his mouth to reply, then closes it sharply.  _He doesn’t know,_ Dean realizes.  _He doesn’t even know if they’ll allow him up there at all._ It makes sense, he supposes. Busting out Heaven’s most wanted and losing him, then losing the demon tablet  _to_ him, wasn’t a real smart move. Sure, they’d recovered both eventually, but Dean learned a long time ago that angels, despite common belief, aren’t much with the forgiveness.

“Well, that settles it, then,” he decides, with a brisk shrug. “I’d rather die being useful than live the Stepford dream in Heaven. Just like old times.” He winks at Cas, as debonair as he can manage while feeling sick like a dog, and for a moment — a single, incandescent moment — they’re back in the angels’ green room, on that fateful night when they first changed the course of destiny together.

_We’re making it up as we go,_ Dean thinks, and feels a frightening surge of love for Cas.

It’s unfair, he thinks: to be about to punch his ticket when they’ve only just begun to find each other. But then, everything in his life so far has been unfair, so it kind of figures that this shouldn’t be any different. He’d rather go down with some dignity than leave this job unfinished again, and deal with the guilt, depression and alcoholism later. He can’t do that anymore.

Besides, there’s the Mark of Cain to account for. If he doesn’t get rid of  _that,_ then whatever he might have had with Cas will be dead long before Dean dies. Abruptly, the thought of the Mark brings another consideration with it.

“You know,” he murmurs, pinned under the weight of Cas’ gaze, “if we’re being honest here… there’s really no guarantee I’d  _actually_ end up in Heaven even if I was cured, is there?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, the pain palpable in his voice, but that doesn’t make Dean’s considerations untrue.

“I mean, think about it,” he chuckles, bitterly. “I’ve got the Mark. I haven’t exactly been a saint my entire life. I’ve been downstairs before, where I accidentally started an apocalypse. And, oh— let’s not forget I recently was a demon.” He shakes his head. “When you weigh my chances, it’s not looking good for the pearly gates.”

“You’re not going to Hell, Dean Winchester,” Cas swears, fervently. “You  _won’t._ ” Cas draws himself up to his full height, and suddenly, the air around him is crackling with electricity, and Dean can smell ozone on the evening breeze. “And if anyone ever was to try and drag you there, I would lay siege to the pit and drag you back out myself. I would bust into Lucifer’s  _goddamn_ cage if I had to, but I would get you out.”

“Woah, easy there, tiger,” Dean murmurs, still reeling from Cas swearing like that (he really  _has_ been a bad influence on the guy).

“I mean it, Dean. I would sooner tear the dimensional planes apart than see you spend another second in Hell. I would find you.” He steps closer and lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder; his fingers find the burnt handprint by sense memory alone, for he never takes his eyes off Dean’s. “Wherever you go, I  _will_ find you.”

Dean swallows. He knows Cas means it — knows he would follow through. That’s exactly what makes this so painful: seeing the strength and intensity and  _hugeness_ of what he can never have.

“I know,” he tells Cas, hoarsely, through a closed-up throat. “But that doesn’t change anything. This is the best thing. Honestly, we both know my soul is earmarked for Hell, but even if I did snatch a ticket for upstairs… I’d still rather it end up this way.” He smiles, weakly. “You gave so much to help me, Cas. Let me give back what I can. If there’s anywhere my soul should go, well… I’d like it to go to you.”

“Dean,” Cas says, again. His voice is low, resigned. Broken. But Dean can sense he’s touched too; can hear the love that fills the sound of his name in Cas’s mouth. He can’t remember a time when Cas didn’t carry his name like that: a love confession in four letters.

“How about we go back inside?” Dean offers, trying to lighten up the atmosphere. He puts his hand over Cas’s, where it’s still resting on his shoulder. With sudden, bittersweet vividness, he’s reminded of the last time they stood together outside the bunker like this, and where it had led them. That had been nice, to put it mildly — earth-shatteringly amazing, if he’s being honest — and for a moment, he wonders if—

_Get real, Winchester_ , he tells himself. He’s on the brink of kicking the bucket, and Cas is looking at him like it physically hurts him to. If there ever was a right time for them, now is not it.

He squeezes Cas’s hand, and allows it to capture his own. It’s large and warm, as Dean knew it would be. Cas always seemed to be unnaturally warm, and Dean has spent longer than he cares to admit longing for that warmth.

They head back inside.

* * *

Sam and Charlie are trying so hard not to make things awkward that they’re making everything about a million times more awkward.

“Listen,” Dean grunts. “Stop acting all casual. You’re doing a crap job of it. It’s just—“ he waves a hand in the air, then has to sit down at the table when the movement makes his head spin. “It’s out there. Y’know. It’s fine. It’s just kind of awkward you had to find out like this.”

“Well…” Charlie exchanges a look with Sam. “Strictly speaking, we didn’t really need to find out.”

“What?” Dean squints at her.

“Dean, come on.” Sam is giving him a  _look_ now, the kind of look that was usually meant to convey how much of a jackass Dean was being. “I’m around you all the time, since… well, forever. Don’t you think I figured it out?”

“You did?” Dean thinks his mouth is gaping a little. He snaps it shut.

Sam nods, shooting him a pitiful look.

“And it was pretty clear in the books too,” Charlie adds. “Your inner monologue was… kinda revealing.” Her ears go a little pink.

“Jesus,” Dean says, putting his face in his hands.

Sam touches his shoulder. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s completely fine. If it had to be anyone— well, I just think— I think this just feels  _right_ , you know? You and Cas.”

“Please stop talking now,” Dean groans.

“By the way,” Charlie frowns, “where  _is_ Cas?”

“He went to get the ingredients for Rowena’s spell,” Dean replies, grouchy. “Though, to be honest, I think he just didn’t wanna run into you two asshats.”

“I can kinda see why,” Charlie grins. Sam just shakes his head, smiling.

“So, now what?”

“Now,” Dean says, getting up — and to his credit, only swaying a tiny bit on his feet - “I start serving Bela blood shots.”

* * *

It’s harder than he thought it would be. All of it, really, starting with confessing his sins to the empty chapel in the bunker. Dean’s never been great with the whole self-love thing, but listing his mistakes and crimes just makes him feel utterly sick of himself.

And then, there’s the actual process of administering the blood. It isn’t so much the blood loss per se, though it doesn’t help his dizziness in the slightest; it’s also the emotional toll of sticking the needle into Bela’s neck, of watching her eyes go black and hearing her roar, and remembering that some time ago, not very long at all, he was the same as her. A tainted thing. A thing beyond redemption.

_Not beyond redemption_ , a voice in his head that sounds a lot like Cas’ whispers.  _Never beyond redemption._

_Hell will come tumbling down before it takes you away from me._

The memory of those words rings inside his ears clear as a bell, and Dean makes an armor out of it, uses it as a shield. He pushes his exhausted body through the motions of the ritual. Three injections. Five injections. Seven.

By the time he gets to the final shot, Bela’s head is lolling against her chest limply, a trickle of blood running down her chin from where she bit her tongue in frenzied rage. She looks about as undone as Dean feels. He slips out of the dungeon and goes to look for the others, finding them in the war room gathered around one of the long tables.

Cas is there too, and he looks up from the spell ingredients briefly to meet Dean’s eyes before quickly turning away again. It’s not that he doesn’t wanna look at Dean; it’s more like he wants to look at him too much, and has to keep himself in check. Dean knows this, because he feels the same way.

“Is everything ready?” Cas asks, his voice rough.

“Should be,” Sam says, checking the sigils traced in chalk on the table for what must be the hundredth time. “Charlie?”

Charlie’s hands are shaking a little, the paper with the incantation rattling softly, but her voice is steady when she speaks. “Let’s do this.”

Dean sits down at the table, watching her. She looks pale and brave, and before she starts reciting the weird language she shoots a fervent look upwards that Dean takes to mean  _please God please don’t let me fuck this up,_ because he’s worn that look before. It comes with the job.

All at once, Dean feels both sorry for her and proud of her, wishes she would be spared the ugliness of hunting and wants to smile at how smart and resilient and  _great_ she is. And then the incantation is over, Charlie’s voice dies down, and Dean doesn’t feel anything else, because he’s passing out.

* * *

He comes to on the floor, with Castiel’s trenchcoat balled under his head. He catches a flash of red hair, and hears Sam’s voice mumble _he’s waking up_ , and then opens his eyes properly enough to see his friends’ faces more fully. They look nervous and tired, but they’re unmistakably, unequivocally beaming at him.

“Did it work?” he rasps, his throat feeling parched and dry. His forehead feels like it’s a million degrees. His vision swims dizzily.

Gently, Castiel takes hold of his arm and lifts it from the ground, shows it to him.

It’s just his arm.

His old, plain, unremarkable arm. With all its scratches and scars. And no Mark.

The Mark of Cain is gone, and the world is still there, no fearsome looming Darkness to engulf them all. Dean could sob with relief, if he didn’t feel like he was burning up.

“You did it,” he croaks instead, smiling weakly up at them, hoping to convey his happiness.

“ _We_ did it,” Sam corrects him, pulling him to sit up with an arm around his shoulders.

“I am  _so_ relieved it worked. I kept thinking I’d pronounced something wrong and then you’d be turned into a llama or something.”

“Why would anyone design a spell to turn a person into a llama?” Cas asks, confused.

Charlie chuckles. “It’s just a reference, you know?  _The Emperor’s New Groove?_ ”

“It’s a Disney movie,” Sam adds when Cas looks completely lost. “One of the animated ones.”

“I still fail to see the point,” Cas insists flatly, and Dean eyerolls fondly.

“We’ll just have to show it to you one of these days,” he says, clapping a hand on Cas’s forearm. It takes him a moment to notice, in his still-confused state, Cas tense up under his touch, the smiles on Sam and Charlie’s faces falling. Then it hits him. 

They won’t get to see the movie together one of these days; or rather, if they do, it will be without him. 

Because Dean, Dean isn’t getting to see any of the days after this one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Dean**

 

They retreat to the war room before the last trial; just the four of them, their faces pale and drawn.

Dean knew this moment was coming — they all knew — but he never anticipated it would be this hard.

 _Shit_ , he thinks, his throat locking up as he looks at the members of his small ragtag family, _I should be used to this by now._ The threat of death — even the certainty of it — is all in a day’s work for them, but it still feels impossibly unfair to have to leave his friends behind.

“So,” Sam begins, because Sammy was always the one to initiate the uncomfortable conversations. But there’s no follow up, and the single syllable hangs in the heavy air of the room, suspended and uncomfortable.

They’ve been here before, a couple of years ago, and Dean knows that’s what makes it all the more difficult for Sam, because Sam knows exactly how badly damaged Dean is at the moment, and worse— he knows what lies at the end of the final sacrifice.

“So this is it,” Dean concludes for him, because someone has to. Charlie makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat. Dean catches the shine of tears in her eyes, and it makes his chest hurt.

To the side, Cas is standing stiffly, his spine ramrod-straight, like back when he was a heavenly soldier, but his eyes betray his composure. Dean’s never seen this much anguish in them; he’s never seen them look so utterly _human._

 _I’m sorry,_ he thinks. _I wish I’d been stronger, better. I wish I’d never hurt a single one of you._ But those are embarrassingly maudlin thoughts, so instead he clears his throat. It’s tearing him apart to do this, but better him than one of the others, and if he can spare them some pain by taking control of this, he’ll gladly do it.

That’s his job, after all; has been his job for most of his life. Keeping the family safe, no matter what.

“After the trial,” he says, sternly, “I want you all to stick together.” He avoids the uncomfortable words he really means, but they still loom over them: _after I’m dead_.

“Sammy, you take care of my wheels,” he orders gruffly, and then amends, “ _our_ wheels. Just ‘cause we have a real home now don’t mean we can just let Baby waste away.”

“You know I will,” Sam replies, his voice unsteady and quiet.

Dean nods, licks his lips — when did they get so dry and parched, anyway? — then continues. “I won’t tell you to keep fighting the good fight, because it’s your life, and your decision. Besides, hopefully, once we slam the gates closed…” he pauses, allowing himself to imagine it. It’s hard to believe things will go right, because things have almost never gone right for them; but he has to try. “Once we lock those bastards up, there should be a lot less crap to fight. But remember all the good we did, Sam, and remember that helping people— _saving_ people, that’s always been the family business.”

Sam nods, jerkily, and _oh, God_ , his eyes are shining too. Dean can feel his own throat closing and swallows hard against it.

“Charlie,” he says, his voice louder and rougher than he meant it, as he turns towards her. “You stay outta trouble. I mean it, okay? And not because you can’t handle it — Lord knows you can — but because the world needs you around. You’re smarter than all of us combined, and you’ll do great things. I know it.”

Charlie’s lip quivers quietly, and before he can say anything else, she launches herself at him, trapping him in a crushing hug.

“I hate this,” she says quietly, her voice filled with the tears she’s obviously doing her best to hold back. “I hate this so much.”

“I know,” Dean murmurs, stroking her hair. “But hey,” he pulls back to look her in the eye, “ _the road goes ever on._ ”

She gapes a little and punches him weakly in the arm. “I _knew_ you were a closet Tolkien nerd,” she accuses. Then, after biting her lip, she adds, quiet and sad: “I love you.”

 _I know_ , he almost quips back like he did that one time, a homage to their favorite sci-fi movie— but what the hell, Charlie deserves better than that, at least this once. And though he’s never taught himself to say the words, and his dying day is a bit late to learn, he does the best he can.

“You too, kid,” he says, and stoops to kiss her forehead. She squeezes him tight again, and steps back.

And then— _then._ He turns to look at Cas, and the huge, silent _something_ that’s always hung between them swells impossibly, filling his heart and the entire room. Distantly, as if from a great distance, he notices Sam and Charlie retreat to a corner, but they might as well have left the room altogether. He only has eyes for Cas.

“Hey,” he says, his voice embarrassingly unsteady.

“Hey,” Cas replies. It’s disarmingly casual, and Dean loves him all the more for that. It suddenly bowls him over, with the force of a tidal wave, how much Cas has changed since they met; how much Cas has embraced, forsaken, and given— for _him_.

When nobody else would have him — when it felt like his own family was drifting away from him — Cas had picked him. Over and over, relentlessly, with the reckless certainty of a lightning strike, Cas had chosen _him._

And just like that, it’s impossible to force down the knot in his throat any longer, impossible to shove any words past it, so he just takes a step forward, closing the distance between them, and then his hands are on either side of Cas’s face and Cas’s arms are around his waist and they’re kissing, they’re kissing and Dean’s crying, a single tear rolling down his cheek and into his mouth, where he tastes the salt of it on Cas’s tongue.

It’s a long kiss, and a desperate one, as if they were mourning everything that they will never have. Dean supposes, in a way, they are. When they finally break apart, there are wet streaks on Cas’s face; Dean’s not sure whose tears left them, and it doesn’t really matter.

 _This is a good last kiss,_ he thinks to himself, dizzily. _Make it be enough. Don’t think about all the places you haven’t kissed him. Don’t think of all the time you could have had together._

He forces a smile onto his face, hoping it will catch on, but Cas looks miserable, his pain a living, physical entity in the room.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, because there’s not much else he can say.

“I love you,” Cas replies, his eyes fierce and burning despite the tear tracks on his face, and Dean thinks distantly that Cas says _I love you_ like a war declaration; he says it like most people say _you’re done for, you have nowhere to hide, I will find you:_ with terrifying purpose, with earth-shaking _meaning_.

From the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam approaching, tentatively. It’s time. He swallows, closes his eyes for a moment — he can still feel tears trembling behind his eyelids, threatening to fall — then, after taking a deep breath, he turns towards the dungeon door.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s squash those evil sons of bitches for good.”

* * *

 

Bela is, unsurprisingly, right where they left her before going to speak with Metatron. Her head lolls back against the chair, her black eyes glazed over, barely conscious. She looks up when she hears the door open, though, blinking in the sudden blade of light.

“Have you come to finish it?” she asks, quietly. Her cultivated voice is tired, defeated; mostly, she seems desperate to get it over with. Dean can relate.

“We have,” he confirms.

She tilts her head to one side, exposing the long, graceful line of her neck. Dean delivers the last injection quickly — feeling Bela flinch minutely as he does — then retreats a few steps. He looks to his side, and Sam is there, holding up Ruby’s knife. He looks awfully pale, but determined, as he holds it out handle-first. Dean takes it from him, and carefully slices open his palm, with a soft muttered curse.

“Ready?” he asks. He’s not entirely sure whether he’s talking to Bela, or himself.

Bela nods, her eyes glazed over with a feverish shine. “I just want my life back,” she whispers.

 _And isn’t that ironic,_ Dean can’t help thinking, though he quickly catches himself, and nods. “Make good use of it.”

He steps close to the chair again, holding his bloodied hand high.

“ _Exorcizamus te,_   _omnis immundus spiritus. Hanc animam redintegra…”_

Bela’s body shudders violently, but she clings to the armrests of her seat with ferocious tenacity, knuckles going white. “ _Do it_ ,” she growls, and there’s such desperate need in her eyes that it gives Dean the last push he needs.

 _“Lustra, lustra,_ lustra! _”_ he yells, and slams his palm onto Bela’s mouth, letting the blood seep between her open lips. Bela thrashes and shudders under his hand, then finally, with one last convulsion, falls unconscious. Dean retreats, panting, and waits with everyone else in the room to see the outcome. After a few long, drawn-out moments, Bela’s eyelids twitch, and she opens her eyes to reveal quickly retreating black. In only a couple seconds, it’s gone completely, leaving only green in her irises.

“Did it work?” she gasps, her voice too raw and emotion-laden for it to be faked. “Is it gone? Am I cured?”

Sam walks forward, unlocking the manacles that kept her pinned to the chair.

“Welcome back,” he says with a small smile, “Here’s to hoping you cause less trouble for us this time around.”

Bela rubs her bruised wrists disbelievingly, as if she couldn’t wrap her head around the fact she’s a whole person again, rather than a monster. Then she smiles — it’s perhaps the first genuine smile Dean has ever seen on his face — and tears well up in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she breathes. “ _Thank you._ ”

Dean nods. “Charlie,” he says, “get her out of here.”

“Like hell,” she bites back immediately. “If you think I’m leaving you alone now, you’ve got another thing coming.” Instead, she grabs Bela by the arm and pushes her behind where she herself is standing, a resolute expression on her face.

“I don’t think any of us are leaving, Dean,” Sam says quietly, and as if to prove him right, Cas steps closer, his presence hovering at the edges of Dean’s vision field; it’s more comforting than Dean cares to admit.

 _I’ll watch over you,_ he remembers Cas saying, offering to guard him in his sleep. He sort of regrets refusing the offer now. He nips it in the bud, however, because if he starts regretting everything that’s gone wrong in his life, he could stand here all month.

“Fine then,” he says instead, his voice coming out thicker than he intended. He turns towards Sam, hand held out for the slip of paper with the last spell written on it. Sam fishes it out of his jeans’ back pocket, fiddles with it for a moment, then — unexpectedly — he launches himself at Dean, enveloping him in a crushing bear hug.

Unprepared and defenseless, Dean lets himself lean into it, soak it in. It’s comforting in that bittersweet, homecoming way that family hugs always are— as little as Dean has known them in his life. He closes his eyes, and with sudden clarity he sees Sam in his entirety: he sees Sammy, the scrappy four-year-old who followed him around in awe; he sees Sam as a teenager, angry and full of spite; and finally, for maybe the first time, he sees Sam for what he is now: a competent, world-weary adult, tested through fire and Hell and made all the stronger and wiser for it.

 _My job is done,_ he realizes with an undertone of wonder, the echo of his father’s urgent words dying out in his head at last. _There’s no one to protect anymore. He’ll be okay._ Relief washes over him like a warm wave. _Sammy’s gonna be okay._

When Sam pulls back, there are tears in his eyes, already threatening to spill down his face, and the slip of paper is in Dean’s hand.

He turns around one last time, taking them all in, the little broken family he has built for himself: Sammy with his ridiculous hair falling in his face, his gigantor frame hunched as if bracing for a physical blow; Charlie to his left, pale and tense, her eyes red and puffy, her fists clenched at her side; and finally — standing tall to Dean’s right — Castiel. _Cas._

Dean remembers their first meeting vividly, even now, and how Cas had seemed otherworldly, powerful, terrifying— how looking at him had made every one of Dean’s hairs stand on end. Now, Cas just looks heartbroken. Dean isn’t sure which version he prefers — _that’s a lie,_ he tells himself, because there is no contest: unfailingly, he would pick _this_ Cas, the warm, solid, _feeling_ Cas — but he’s sorry that Cas has to feel this way. To have been the agent of Cas’s downfall into emotion and pain and all this _human_ crap.

Dean smiles at him now, because that’s all he can do. He smiles, and it’s an apology, a love confession, a last goodbye. Then, blinking to clear his vision, he unfolds the paper slip.

“ _Kah-nah-om-dar,”_ he enunciates firmly. As soon as the last syllable leaves his lips, his arms and chest explode with pain, and he can all but _feel_ the fire — magic fire, heavenly fire — consuming him from within. It’s cleansing, almost ecstatic in a way, but on the other hand, it’s pure agony, it’s _martyrdom—_ his nerves are screaming with it, and he _knows_ , with absolute certainty, that his body won’t be able to stand it much longer. _So it goes,_ he thinks distantly.

Then — as quickly as it had started — his world dissolves in a blaze of white light.

* * *

 

**Castiel**

****

They can all see it the moment the spell kicks in. It’s so fast, and so brutal, that Dean doesn’t even have the time to scream: he falls to his knees, shaking, light burning inside his arms and shining out from his chest and throat. It’s frightening.

The might of Heaven is filling the room. Castiel can feel it: his battered grace is responding to it with sharp urgency— and he _doesn’t care._ His every thought, every fiber of his being, is honed on one thing only: _Dean._

Because Dean is in such obvious pain, such obvious mind-shattering pain, that Castiel aches in response, wishing he could be the one suffering through this instead.

 _Why, Father,_ he asks himself, not for the first time, but with more anger and anguish than he has ever felt in his long, long life— _why did You have to make it this hard? Why must Your love be earned with blood?_

Suddenly, too fast for anyone to be able to react, Dean lets out a tortured cry, and immediately falls to the floor, motionless.

They all run to him the second it happens, but it feels like slow-motion to Castiel. He feels as if he’s struggling through quicksand, breathing in mud instead of air. Finally, _finally,_ he’s at Dean’s side, helping Sam turn him over while Charlie calls out his name over and over with increasing urgency, _Dean, Dean_ — but there’s no answer.

There will be no answer, Castiel knows; God makes no mistakes. If it takes the ultimate sacrifice to destroy Hell, then there’s no coming back from that sacrifice, not now, not ever. Not even for someone as brave and larger-than-life as Dean.

Castiel knows this, or _should_ know it, but it doesn’t stop him from clinging to Dean’s arm, gripping his shoulder desperately, holding on to him for as long as he can. It doesn’t stop him from putting a hand on Dean’s cheek and turning his face up to the light, hoping to somehow wake him up.

 _Why,_ he keeps thinking over and over, _why did it have to be him?_

He looks up, his eyes burning, and meets Sam’s gaze. Sam is holding on to Dean’s other arm, and tears are streaming down his face freely, his face a mask of pain over the loss of the brother that — Castiel knows — he loved more than life.

Castiel wishes he could cry, too; though it would not — could not — ease the pain, he thinks it would at least help to draw it out, rather than having it sit inside his chest, weighing his heart down like a stone. But his eyes feel as dry and hot as the Sahara, the grace inside him preventing the tears from coming out.

“Can’t you bring him back?” Charlie says on a half-sob, looking at him with huge eyes.

It hurts everything in him to shake his head. _No,_ he thinks, _I can’t._ Suddenly, violently, he hates himself: for not stopping Dean, for not being strong enough to revive him. He hates the spell for damaging Dean beyond his power.

“It’s not what he would want, Charlie,” he hears Sam say through a choked-up throat, and he gets the vivid feeling the words are meant for him, as well. _Of course,_ he thinks. Sam, selfless Sam, trying to ease other people’s pain even when he himself has lost everything.

If nothing else, Sam’s words remind him that he still has a job to do; something to carry through as Dean would have wanted him to. It’s difficult, though, nearly impossible to tear himself away from Dean’s side, to force himself to let of Dean’s face, to stop looking into his eyes— still startlingly green, despite their sightlessness.

He looks up, to where Charlie is now sobbing against Sam’s chest, and tries to steel himself for what’s to come. _Your sacrifice will not be in vain,_ he promises silently.

Slowly, almost reverently, he reaches down and places his index and middle finger on Dean’s eyelids, gently sliding them closed. As soon as he’s done that, a sigh seems to rustle through the room, and a pulsing, glowing ball of azure-white emerges from Dean’s chest, gracefully floating upwards. Castiel would know that light anywhere.

 _Dean’s soul,_ he thinks, and distantly feels his eyes well up at last. _It’s Dean’s soul_.

It’s as breathtakingly beautiful as he remembered it, if not more, the dust and black grime the Mark had left on it falling off it like a shed skin as it soars higher towards the ceiling. He’s so entranced with looking at it, basking in its familiar glow, that it takes him a few moments to recover. When he does, he hastily draws his grace to himself and channels it out via his arm, thrusting a hand out — open-palmed, with two fingers raised — to anchor the soul in place.

“Sam,” he calls out as if through a daze, “Go get Metatron. We need to work on the spell immediately.” Sam nods and leaves the room, taking Bela with him. Charlie takes his place kneeling by Dean’s body, holding Dean’s other hand.

Castiel knows he can’t hold Dean’s soul in place for too long. Even now, as he keeps it still with tendrils of his grace, he can sense its desire to move, to rise upwards. He smiles a little to himself: of course, Dean’s soul was meant to ascend to Heaven. There was no way that any soul as bright and selfless and _good_ as his would be earmarked for Hell. Then again, Castiel thinks, Dean was never a huge fan of Heaven— nor — he realizes, his smile disappearing — Heaven of him. When he considers that, it is probably for the best that Dean’s soul is not being pulled into Heaven, since more than an angel had had reason to hold a grudge against Dean— and his brethren, Castiel thinks sourly, are not the _forgive and forget_ kind.

No, this is better, he decides. Dean would want, first and foremost, to be useful; he would want to fight till the end, no matter the cost to himself.

 _If there’s anything worth dying for,_ Dean had told him once, _this is it._ And those words had changed the course of Castiel’s whole existence.

But really, truly, it had been Dean’s eyes: his wide, resolute green eyes, and the way they had forced Castiel’s gaze to meet them, the way they would not allow him to look away from Heaven’s sins, to look away from the human in front of him.

Dean always had a way of doing that, of commanding Castiel’s attention entirely and completely, enough that everything and everyone else dimmed in Castiel’s eyes. He thinks Dean had that effect on most people, though; he simply burned too brightly to be ignored.

It’s true now as well, though Dean’s light has been put out. There is nothing Castiel wants more than to turn around and look at him, at his body — his soul’s temple — lying still on the ground. Castiel wants — and it’s a foreign, terrifyingly _human_ want, yet one he’s felt before — to lie down and mourn his friend. However, he knows he’s not allowed yet; because if he does that— well, he’ll never be able to stop.

So he turns his attention back to Dean’s soul, and he closes his eyes, letting its warm light pulse through his grace. It’s a familiar caress, one he’d first felt years ago in the deepest pits of Hell, when he still didn’t know that his life would never be the same again.

Dean’s soul shimmers and glows in the quiet room, confusion and recognition simultaneously pervading his link with Castiel’s grace. Then, suddenly, a huge, disarming wave of what can only be described as _affection_ almost bowls Castiel over, leaves him gasping.

He can feel tears threatening to spill all over again, and all he can do is push back all his love through the link— his boundless, desperate love.

 _I’m here, Dean,_ he sends across on the electric pull of his grace. _I’ve got you._ Dean’s soul pulses warmly with something like relief.

 _And you have me_ , Castiel thinks privately, to himself. _We may not be able to be together here and now— but I will find you. Wherever you are, I will find you._

* * *

It doesn’t take Metatron long to put the spell together. He has almost everything he needs.

First comes the heart of the demon spawn, Jesse, laid into a bowl with herbs and ointments. Then the ashes of the Book of the Damned, sprinkled over it carefully. Black smoke rises from the bowl, dissolving quickly into the air of the room.

“It’s time,” Metatron says, looking at him wryly.

Castiel is loath to release Dean’s soul at all, much less into the hands of someone as despicable as Metatron. It’s more than that, too: Metatron _killed_ Dean once before. Castiel remembers all too well, and Metatron remembers it too, judging from the odious smile on his face.

“If you do anything to his soul,” he warns, “anything at all that’s not essential to the spell to restore the angels, I will know. And you won’t make it out of this room. Not in one piece.”

Metatron rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, I get it. Your beloved’s soul is all-important. As the kids say, _give me a break._ I care about getting my grace back much more than I care about pranking the sad remains of… loverboy here.”

Castiel almost punches him for that, hard enough to break bone. _His name is Dean,_ he wants to say, _Dean Winchester. You’d do well to remember that._ But he doesn’t do any of that, because they need Metatron for the spell, and Castiel wants it over with as quickly as possible, and then he never wants to have to see Metatron’s infuriating ratty face again.

Gritting his teeth, he slowly releases his hold on Dean’s soul, keeping one tendril of grace tethered to it, pulling it down, encasing it in the jar Metatron has passed him. The soul whispers to him inaudibly, like a warm gust of wind, and Castiel almost changes his mind then and there, Dean’s last will be damned— but then Metatron takes the jar from him and lids it, and the sound of Dean’s soul is gone.

“This will take a little time,” Metatron warns the room at large, “as all masterpieces do.”

The self-congratulatory jab falls into dead silence, which Castiel finds extremely pleasing.

“Just get to work.”

* * *

 

They don’t see the spell work, not exactly, but Castiel _feels_ it the second it does.

There’s a tugging on his grace, a pull upwards it takes all his strength and focus to resist.

“The angels,” he murmurs. “They’re getting home.”

“You’re welcome,” Metatron chirps smugly.

“Oh, fuck off,” Sam groans, “you were the one who made them all fall, remember?”

Metatron shrugs, all offended dignity, but before Castiel can step in, Charlie’s eyes have gone blank, her mouth slightly parted.

“Charlie? Charlie, are you okay?” Sam shakes her gently.

“Sam,” Castiel warns, “don’t.”

Sam pulls his hand back warily, and sure enough, in a few moments Charlie gasps in air and her eyes regain their focus.

“It’s the souls,” she says, breathless. “All of the souls are moving on. I’m not sure why I could see it. I think Kevin must have pushed what he was experiencing on me. Sneaky bastard.”

“You mean the souls are ascending to Heaven?” Castiel asks, urgently.

Charlie nods eagerly. “Well, some of them. Some others are taking the one-way ride downstairs, though I don’t know what’ll happen now that Hell is closed for business,” she muses. “…It _is_ closed, isn’t it?”

“Do you think God just built His trials to _not_ work?” Metatron barks at her.

“Hey, untwist your pants, you little gremlin, I—” Charlie’s face goes unfocused again for a half minute or so. Castiel and Sam wait it out patiently.

“They’re _all_ moving on,” she says eventually, sounding awed. “Even the sinners. They have no choice but to ascend to Heaven.”

“Can they even do that?” Sam asks, wrinkling his nose. “Should we be worried?”

Charlie thinks about it for a moment.

“Cas, correct me if I’m wrong here,” she says slowly,”but don’t you guys have dungeons in Heaven?”

“We do,” Castiel confirms. It feels weird to have anyone other than Sam or Dean call him ‘Cas’. _Don’t think about Dean now,_ he tells himself. _Focus on the mission._ He clears his throat.

“Heaven’s prison was mostly used for dissident angels, ones who disobey orders.”

“Like Gadreel,” Sam says, remembering.

Castiel nods. _And like Anna,_ he thinks. _Like me._ His time in Heaven’s prison — when he was considering telling Dean all about the archangels’ plans for the apocalypse — had been anything but enjoyable, even though he hadn’t remembered Naomi’s torture at the time.

“Well, I’m guessing those dungeons of yours will be put to pretty good use from now on,” Charlie says, with a small smile.

It’s a lot to take in. In all his long years of serving Heaven, Castiel can’t remember the place ever changing. Heaven’s structure was fluid, that much was true, but the tenets that held paradise together were immutable: for each action, a reaction; for each shift in the metaphysics of Heaven, a subtle, inexorable shift back. And at the center of it all, the Garden.

For millions of years, Castiel remembers, the souls of the righteous had been collected in the same place, sprouting their own personal heavens all around them, like so many gas stations on the highways that only angels could roam. For a sinner to gain access to paradise, though not unheard of… that meant subverting the rules of the entire dimension. And yet. And _yet_ — it might just work.

Castiel smiles, warmth bubbling up in his chest despite the way his heart has been feeling crushed under a grindstone ever since the third spell. Damned souls in Heaven’s dungeons — a single afterlife for all — and no more demons to roam the Earth.

Even after his death, Dean manages to defy all expectations; once again, he has broken all the rules and rearranged the cosmos around himself, by sheer force of stubbornness and bravery and disregard for his own life.

 _You tore up the script,_ Castiel thinks, pride and love swelling to rival the pain. _You tore up the script all over again_ . _I only wish you hadn’t torn me up in the process, as well._

“Cas?” Sam asks, and Castiel realizes that he’d gotten lost in his own mind.

“What?”

“Do you think it can work? Like… do you think the other angels will be able to handle it?”

Castiel shrugs. “I can’t say for sure. I hope so, but it won’t be easy. Then again,” he adds, a smile tugging at his lips, “we seem to be making it up as we go.

* * *

 

None of them are too fond of the idea of letting Metatron go, but a binding contract is a binding contract. The spells it would take to work around that kind of magic are too old and powerful, and they have no way to track down Rowena at present, which is a source of worry in and of itself.

“Why do I feel like we’re gonna regret this?” Sam mutters in his ear.

“Because we are,” Castiel replies dryly. Still, he plucks the vial with Metatron’s grace from the inside pocket of his trenchcoat. Metatron watches him greedily, like a famished hawk.

“Shall we make the swap?” he chuckles. “Oh, this is exciting. I feel like I’m in a gangster movie.”

“Swap?” Castiel frowns. “What could you possibly have to swap for your grace?”

“Oh my,” Metatron gasps in a mockery of shock. It makes Castiel’s hackles rise, and he has to refrain himself from punching Metatron just on principle. _I’m becoming as impulsive as Dean,_ he thinks on a whim. It strikes him that there’s no regret whatsoever in that thought.

“And here I was, thinking you might want your precious human’s soul back.” Metatron clucks, shaking his head. “Well, I guess I’m just a hopeless romantic.”

A jolt of electricity runs down Castiel’s spine, and he’s dimly aware of Sam looking up sharply behind him.

“What in the name of Heaven are you talking about? How can you trade Dean’s soul? You used it for the spell.” Castiel can hear the desperate hope in his own voice — _stupid,_ he tells himself, _it makes you weak to his manipulations_ — but it can’t be helped. Not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to Dean. He’s always been painfully weak whenever Dean was involved.

Metatron, sure enough, is looking at him smugly, well aware of the advantage he’s gained, but even that doesn’t prevent him from shaking his head with mock compassion. “You’re really not that quick on the uptake, are you, Castiel.”

“Speak plainly,” he growls in response, his sword hand itching to summon his blade.

“I used his soul for the counter-spell, yes— _part_ of it. Just like I only used _part_ of your grace for the first spell. Surely even you remember that.”

 _He’s right,_ Castiel realizes, his heart rate increasing. If he’d got his grace back — if it had only taken a small piece to cast the angels down — then there really _is_ a chance that Dean’s soul still exists. When he turns around, Sam looks as hopeful as Castiel himself feels; Castiel gives a small, tentative smile.

“Alright,” he says turning back to Metatron, trying hard not to appear too eager. “We take the deal. Your grace for Dean’s soul.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Metatron scolds, a sickly sweet smile on his face. “Someone’s getting way too greedy— greedy _and_ forgetful. You already _owe_ me my grace, remember?” Castiel can clearly hear the steel and hate under the mock-pleasant tone of his voice. “You’re gonna have to offer me a better deal, I’m afraid.”

_Of course._

“What do you want?” he grits out.

Metatron’s eyes twinkle victoriously. “The demon tablet. Both pieces. No takebacks.”

“That doesn’t belong to you.”

“Oh, what do _you_ even need it for? You’ve already done the demon trials. You leave that tablet with me. It’s a good deal, Castiel. You know that.”

“There’s power in the tablets. Do you think I don’t remember what happened when you had the angel tablet?”

Metatron shrugs dismissively. “The demon tablet isn’t anywhere as powerful. It’s merely useful reading. Besides, I really _should_ have it, since I’m the one who wrote it down. Call it… sentimental value.”

“It was meant for the prophets,” Castiel replies stubbornly. Even away from Heaven’s conditioning, his ingrained drive to protect the tablets is stronger than he imagined.

“There _are_ no more prophets,” Metatron replies dismissively. “Your half-powered Sybil here hardly counts. But hey,” he shrugs, “it’s up to you. You either want your beau’s soul, or you don’t.”

A quick exchanged look with Sam tells Castiel what they both already knew from the beginning: this deal is one they’re gonna take, no matter what Metatron may ask for.

“You can have the tablet,” Castiel concedes, turning back to Metatron. The oily, unpleasant smile on his face does nothing but reinforce Castiel’s gut feeling that something’s wrong here, but he can’t put his finger on it, nor can he think clearly. If there’s any chance at all they can put Dean’s soul back in his body — and that’s a big _if:_ Castiel had done it once, but he had been more powerful, backed by the power of the heavenly host and under orders from Michael himself — the consequences are mere afterthought.

If Uriel were here, he’d think Castiel weak; he would be right, to a point. Negotiating with the enemy, when you could simply smite them, is always dangerous. But an eternity without Dean— that’s more than dangerous. It is a death sentence.

* * *

 

It isn’t until later, when Metatron is powered up again, and they’re parting ways, that Castiel realizes just how foolish they had been.

Metatron cuts an odd shape silhouetted in the bunker’s doorway against the setting sun, one that Castiel does not care to see again.

“Well, I’d say goodbye,” Metatron says, looking entirely too pleased with himself, “but I have a feeling we’ll see each other again.”

“I hope not,” Castiel deadpans. He wants Metatron gone, and he wants him to hand over Dean’s soul. Anything else is just background noise.

“Oh, come _on!_ We had a good time occasionally, didn’t we? Besides, I like this parting. It has… what is the expression? Ah, yes: _poetic justice._ ”

Castiel knows he should refuse to let himself be goaded, but he’s tired and off his guard. “In what way?”

Metatron smiles like a cat who just ate a bellyful of cream. “Why, here I am reunited with my tablet — sentimental value, as I said — and here you are reunited with your crush’s soul… also for sentimental value.”

Castiel looks at the jar containing Dean’s soul, currently held tight in his hands. Suddenly, the feeling of something being amiss is nagging at his mind.

“Because of course sentimental value is all there is to _that._ You’re aware of it, right? For a soul to be restored to a body, it has to be whole. That one, with a chunk cut off it? It’s not going to revive anything.”

Ice creeps into Castiel’s bones as Metatron words sink in, their impact resonating loudly. He’s right. Of course he’s right. How could Castiel have forgotten? The soul is the essence of human life; damage the soul, you damage the human. A wave of denial goes through him, sharp and frenzied.

“Sam’s soul was restored to him, even after spending a long time in the Cage,” he notes, trying to keep his voice level.

“Ah, but Sam’s soul was a full-size soul. Battered, tortured, flayed alive, call it what you will— it was in pieces, yes, but the pieces were all there. Now, Dean, however…” Metatron shakes his head, in a parody of sorrow. “Even if you _could_ bring him back with that, I fear to think just _what,_ exactly, you’d bring back.”

Slowly, as if in a dream — a vivid, horrible dream — Castiel uncorks the crystal jar and waits. Dean’s soul glimmers dimly inside, no movement, no warmth, no steady thrumming pulse latching deep to Castiel’s grace and resonating with it, setting his whole being alight.

It’s Dean’s soul, but broken. Dormant. Lifeless.

“I hope you enjoy the memento,” Metatron says — a subtle, malignant delight oozing from each word — and then disappears into nothing, the only angel in all of creation with his wings still intact.

Castiel wishes he, too, still had wings— to hunt Metatron down and stab him through the heart for this cruel taunt, to fly far away, to launch himself into the sun and scream out his pain where only the hyperouranic spheres will hear him.

Castiel wishes he could have Dean back, even just for a day, an hour, a moment. Just long enough to tell him everything, to make him understand just how all-encompassing Castiel’s love for him is, how all-consuming, how it has set his whole being on fire and won’t stop burning even now, now that all that’s left of his heart are smoking ashes.

Realistically, he knows there isn’t enough time in the world to tell Dean the entirety of what he feels for him. Realistically, he also knows he has no time at all.

Clutching the jar to his chest, Castiel lets himself fall to his knees with a soft wounded noise that startles him with its rawness. They had mourned like this in Egypt, when their firstborn had been struck down by Heaven’s armies; they had mourned like this in Troy, too, when their city had been burned down, their people slaughtered.

Castiel hadn’t understood it then, the sounds they made, the grief on their faces, the pure animal suffering of losing someone dear to you, your flesh and bone, a part of yourself. He understands it now.

He wishes he didn’t.

* * *

 

The worst part is having to tell Sam that he will not see his brother again after all.

 _That’s not true,_ a more honest part of him reminds him, _the worst part is losing Dean. Not ever getting to see him open his eyes again. Not ever kissing him again._

Yet, Sam is the closest friend Castiel has left, and to shatter his hopes — hopes so recently raised — hurts Castiel too, in addition to the reminder of their common loss.

“What do you mean, it’s not gonna work?”

Sam looks as heartbroken as Castiel himself feels, and for a moment, he understands Dean’s relentless drive to protect him. He can’t, however, so he just shakes his head, his throat feeling dry and parched.

“His soul. It’s… not whole. It can’t fit inside him as it did when I first brought him back.”

“But you got back your grace!” The words are almost accusing, and it stings. _Do you think I wouldn’t a hundred times rather be dead in his place?_ , he almost shouts back, but then he reminds himself Sam is grief-stricken, not thinking clearly.

Fighting through the exhaustion that has overtaken him ever since Metatron left with his parting shot, he patiently explains: “Grace is… fluid, Sam. Angels do not have physical shapes such as humans might imagine them. We are — our _graces_ are — pure energy, taking whatever form is required by our driving purpose. And while I do have a true form, my grace doesn’t have to be whole to achieve it; it is capable of… well, stretching, is the best way to put it, I guess.”

He pauses to catch his breath. He’s tired, so tired. He wants to go to sleep, as he did when he was human and alone. Yes, he wants to sleep, and never wake up.

“Human souls aren’t like that”, he continues. “They don’t stretch, or bend. They are much like you: resilient, unique. Take one part away, and the end result is compromised. You have no idea of the care it took to put your brother back together” — _but I do, because I was there_ — “or to place your own soul back inside you. I’m sorry, Sam. I am. But Dean’s soul is—”

Humiliatingly, his voice breaks, the words dying in his throat. This is so difficult, so painful to explain. He doesn’t want to say it out loud, because saying the words makes them true. He steels himself before going on.

“Dean’s soul is mutilated. Broken. I can’t use a broken soul to put together a whole human being. And for that, I am— I am sorry.”

As soon as he gets the words out, he feels the last of his strength escape with them, and he collapses into a chair, his throat obstructed by a scorching knot of tears, his face hidden in his hands.

“I’m sorry too, Cas,” he hears Sam say. “I shouldn’t have been a dick to you, I just— I hoped… but it isn’t your fault, and I’m sorry.”

A moment later, there’s a large hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t look up. Despite the awkwardness of its touch, Sam’s hand is comforting and warm— but it’s all wrong; it isn’t Dean’s.

Dean had liked to touch his shoulder, Castiel thinks, because it was one of the few places it was safe to touch. It had started like that, and had progressed into more each time, with Dean’s hand sliding down his arm, then his forearm, lingering longer each time, pressing gentler each time. It was a caress more than a touch, and Castiel has never wanted it more than he does right now.

He sits there, hunched over, for he doesn’t know how long, tears streaming quietly down his face at first, but quickly exhausting their supply, the flow stemmed by his grace. At some point Sam must leave, because he hears retreating steps; still he doesn’t look up. His mind is in chaos, his grace roiling sickly inside his hollowed-out chest.

Slowly, he realizes through the fog of pain and confusion that something is nagging at him, has been prickling at the back of his mind since he told Sam about the fluid nature of grace as opposed to human souls.

_…pure energy, taking whatever form is required by our driving purpose..._

What was it about those words that bothered him? What had he told Sam next? Something about grace being able to stretch, to bend. Castiel can’t put his fingers on it. Suddenly, unbidden, a memory surfaces, Dean’s face coming into focus, blurred. It hurts, but Castiel doesn’t have the strength to fight it, so he lets the memory play out.

Dean, sitting on a motel bed, talking to him. A few empty beers lined up on the desk, putting a flush on Dean’s cheeks, a light slur in his speech. Dean was talking to him, Castiel recalls now, about Anna.

 _And then we went to where her grace touched down, okay, but it wasn’t there anymore because your buddy Uriel took it. But— okay, get this, there was this ginormous, beautiful tree where it had landed. Grace Ground Zero._ Dean had chuckled to himself then, before looking at Castiel again.

 _And then she said — she told us, that was what it was, Grace Ground Zero— that what it truly was, is… pure creation._ His green eyes had gone soft and unfocused with wonder, as if trying to imagine such a thing. _That’s what she said— pure creation._

Castiel sits up, sharply, his hands dropping away from his eyes, his exhaustion falling off him like a black mantle.

_Of course._

It was so simple, it had been staring at him all along: that was what was nagging at him, all the time since he had spoken to Sam. That was the solution.

_Energy, taking whatever form is required. Pure creation._

Castiel stands, fists clenched tight at his sides, and breathes deeply— once, twice, like a swimmer finally coming up for air after almost drowning. And just like that, he knows what he has to do.

* * *

 

Dean is on his bed, because that is where they had put him before giving Metatron his grace back, before doing anything else. That is where he’d want to be, Castiel thinks with a half smile, remembering all the times that Dean had praised his mattress while talking to him over the phone. Something about the foam having good memory. Castiel wasn’t entirely familiar with the concept, but he understood it made Dean rest better, and anything that could achieve that was a plus in Castiel’s books.

This is also where Sam had put him the time before that, when he’d died and come back with black eyes. Castiel had been in Heaven at that time, chained to a chair, watching Metatron swirl a bloodied angel blade in front of his face, feeling sick to his stomach with the knowledge that it was _Dean’s blood._ Castiel hadn’t been able to do anything to help him then, but he can do something _now_ , and he’s not going to wait another second.

He sits by the side of the bed, watching Dean’s white, motionless face. Already its shape, and the shape of his body, is beginning to alter, letting in an unfamiliar, unwelcome stiffness. It’s something Castiel has seen before, of course, having been a spectator to millennia of human death, but it looks all the more wrong and out of place on someone like Dean, always moving, his face a constant kaleidoscope of emotion.

All the more reason to hurry.

He takes a deep breath and looks about the room, checking that he’s undisturbed. He’s asked Sam for a time alone in here, but he’s aware that he only has precious little time before someone comes knocking.

Summoning his angel blade, he closes his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts and bracing himself for what’s to come. If he were his old self, he would probably pray right about now, sending thin threads of need over the wavelengths of grace, waiting for his siblings to reply, hoping to reach an absent Father’s ears. But it has been a long time since he was that creature.

He wishes he could at least talk to Anna, though, because she, of all people, would understand. She would know.

 _Did it hurt?,_ he had asked her once, in those doubtful, fearful times, before he was brainwashed into turning her in to Heaven’s justice. He had been full of unease upon asking — because it was unseemly, a taboo topic of conversation, almost obscene — but also full of curiosity.

 _It hurt like hell,_ she had answered, chuckling at her own joke. _It’s like cutting out one of your vital organs with a dulled sword, or a wooden spoon_ — then, seeing the look on his face, she had stopped, shaking her head with a mixture of amusement, pity and disdain. _Why am I even telling you this? You don’t understand. How could you? You don’t know real pain; you’ve never_ had _vital organs. Let it go, Castiel_.

He had. But several forays into humanity later, he has a better sense of what Anna meant, and he can imagine how scared she must have been when she had done it: when she had fallen, truly and completely. In fact, he can imagine it all too well, because he feels the same fear. Not merely of physical pain, but of all the myriad things that could go wrong.

Anna, he recalls, had been ejected from Heaven, her grace falling elsewhere as she reincarnated somewhere else. The mere thought fills him with feverish dread. He doesn’t want to lose what he has found— his experiences, his struggle to gain and understand free will, his friends— and least of all, his memories.

The last thing he wants is to forget Dean.

He looks down at the body on the bed, his chest clenching and unclenching nervously, like a fist. _Even if I forgot you,_ he tells Dean silently, though the words are meant for himself, _I would find my way back to you. Or you would find me. You’ve done it before. You made me remember. I will remember again._

And then, of course, there’s that bit of hope that keeps him afloat: Anna had been inhabiting a vessel when she’d torn out her grace, and her vessel had been reclaimed by its original human occupant. But this vessel — this body — has long been Castiel’s own, _his_ _body_ for all intents and purposes since Jimmy had found rest in Heaven. Logically, there would be no need for him to reincarnate into a different body… but then again, his existence has seldom followed logic.

 _Just get on with it,_ he tells himself. _You’ll never know until you try._

So he says a quick prayer — a small thing, more similar to a human’s than the complicated formulae he might once have recited — a few Enochian syllables for his own safety and that of his friends, and a few more for the fate of his endeavor. Then, he lifts his blade, and gets to work.

* * *

 

In the end, it hurts more than he had actually imagined, which is saying a lot, given the level of familiarity Castiel has acquired with pain. Anna had been right. Even the pain of suturing a divine artifact inside your stomach, it seems, cannot hold a candle to the suffering of cutting into your sternum and digging _deep_ , deep enough to unseat the very core of you.

It’s agony with every breath, and every part of him is screaming for it to stop, screaming that it goes against his very nature, that he’s committing the greatest of sins, that he should just _stop, stop, STOP._

Every part, of course, except for his heart.

So he keeps on, the point of his blade tucking loose parts of him that have been there since his creation, a million million years ago.

 _If I keep doing this, I’ll die,_ a part of his brain cries out, railing against the violence he’s inflicting on himself.

 _If I don’t do this,_ a calmer, more honest part replies, _I’m already dead._

He doesn’t know how long it takes, the pain making his vision swim dizzily, but at some point he must have screamed out loud, because suddenly Sam is bursting through the door with Charlie in tow, and he thought he’d be upset but he’s just grateful, because someone has to keep him conscious enough to finish this, to finish the job.

“Sam,” he croaks, struggling to sit upright on the floor — when had he fallen down from the chair? — as they flank him on either side.

“What the hell are you doing? Cas, stop it, you gotta stop!”

“There’s so much blood! Are you gonna be okay? Give me that knife—”

Weakly, he bats away Charlie’s hand, while shaking his head in Sam’s general direction.

“I’m… gonna be okay. Just… my grace… it’s…”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Sam asks, his brow furrowing as he looks at him intently. “Cas, are you… actually cutting out your own grace? Like— like what Anna did?”

Castiel nods, grateful for Sam’s prompt catching on.

Charlie appears to rack her brains for a couple of seconds to figure out who they’re talking about, then understanding quickly dawns on her face. “But if he does that…” she looks at Sam in consternation. “He’ll fall. Fall for good, I mean, just… become human. Like us.”

Sam, however, isn’t looking at her, his eyes drawn to the bed, to the body lying on it. “I think that’s what he wants,” he says eventually, and his voice is quiet and sad, but laden with understanding.

“Are you sure, Cas? That this is what you want?” he asks, regardless, hazel eyes soft but serious. For a moment, even despite the pain tearing through his chest, Castiel is confused by the question, because Sam of all people should know that angels can regain their grace even after it’s been cut out.

Then it hits him: though he can’t know what, exactly, Castiel is doing, Sam knows that he’s not going to take his grace back. On some level — perhaps going by what he’s read on Castiel’s face — he senses that this time, it’s final.

“I’m sure,” Castiel rasps, his voice weak with exertion and pain. Sam just nods, not saying anything else, his hand landing on Castiel’s shoulder. Charlie, despite looking troubled and as if she wanted to protest, gets down on her knees and takes Castiel’s unoccupied hand, squeezing gently.

His resolve strengthened by their presence, Castiel gives a final — searing, agonizing — twist of his blade, and just like that, in an explosion of blinding, dizzying pain and light, his grace is tucked loose.

“Take it,” he coughs out, gesturing to the empty vial that contained Metatron’s grace, “Bottle it before it can disperse— there are words, a spell— _ol-gah-zil-em-na..._ ” Through gritted teeth, he just barely gets out the bit of old Enochian, coaxing his grace into the container—

And then, with a spasm, a violent shudder, the tie between him and it severs, and he’s _human_ , completely human, collapsing to the floor in a pool of his own blood, shock setting in with cold shivers, and his vision going black at the edges.

* * *

 

He wakes up in a dimly lit room, and the first thing he’s aware of is pain.

The second thing that hits him, however, is a nauseating flash of anxiety that it’s too late, that too much time has passed, that Sam will have buried Dean, or burned the body without waiting for him. He struggles to get up, only to fall back onto his elbows, his head spinning.

“Hey there,” says a quiet voice from the corner, one that it takes him a second to recognize.

“Charlie?” he mutters, bringing his hands up to cradle his head. It aches. He’s thirsty, and overwarm with what is possibly a fever. He had _not_ missed this part of humanity.

“Yeah. You should take it easy—you’re cut up pretty badly.” She’s sitting in a wooden chair that looks uncomfortable, and her face is pale and tired.

“Where’s—”

“Dean? Still in his room. Sam’s there. But we can’t wait much longer, because, well…”

 _The smell,_ Castiel thinks, sickness punching him in the stomach at the mere thought. _Of course._ The idea shouldn’t affect him as badly as it does — after all, the first time he’d seen Dean’s body, it had been in a much more unpleasant state of decay — but that was then, and this is now, and the notion of even a touch of rot settling upon Dean is enough to make his stomach turn.

“I understand.”

“Yeah. So, if there’s anything you wanted to do — angel magic trick, or whatever — you better do it now, because we don’t have a lot of time.”

Castiel nods, trying to clear the fog in his mind and finally pulling himself upright. His abdomen is bandaged, the gauze rusty-red with dried blood, but he’s surprised to notice the size of the wound seems smaller than he’d first judged.

He notices three white pills on his nightstand and a glass of water, and downs them all without thinking. Only after he’s drunk the whole glass it occurs to him to turn to Charlie for explanations, which come without being prompted.

“Yep, painkillers. Pretty strong ones too. Sam said they’d do the job, which, understatement. That stuff is probably enough to knock down a horse.” She smiles a little uneasily. “Guess ex-angels have a pretty high tolerance, though. Oh, here—“

Getting up, she reaches carefully in the inside pocket of her jacket, extracting the vial with Castiel’s grace. It shifts and shimmers in his presence, as if in recognition, and it calms Castiel down somewhat, grounds him with a warm undercurrent of hope.

Carefully, he slings his legs over the edge of the bed, then gets up, ignoring the prickling of the wound under the bandage, and retrieves the vial from Charlie.

“Whatever you have in mind,” she says, quiet and earnest, “I hope to God it works.”

Castiel nods. He hasn’t asked his Father for much lately, but if he could ask just one thing, this would be it.

 “So do I.”

* * *

 

“You’re up,” Sam says. His voice, though genuinely relieved, is also tired and cheerless. He’s holding himself together as best he can, Castiel knows; and sooner or later the dam is going to break.

“I’m surprised myself,” Castiel confesses, attempting a small smile and not quite managing it. “I’m assuming you, uh, patched me up?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. I’m not exactly a medical professional or anything, mind you, but the stitches should hold up fine, and the scar shouldn’t be too ugly. Turns out the cut you made was far more precise than I thought with all the blood.”

Castiel inclines his head, not sure what he should feel at this revelation. Relief, perhaps, or pride in his own skill with a blade. None of it seems to matter very much. He doesn’t mind scars at all.

“Also,” Sam continues, his tone more careful, “I think you have some grace leftovers hanging on in there, because your chest was starting to knit itself back together even before I stitched it. That’s probably why you can even stand to move.”

Now _that’s_ more interesting. Castiel is certain he severed his grace completely — he wouldn’t be human otherwise, and he most certainly is — but then again, he recalls all of a sudden, Anna had retained angelic abilities as well. He wonders if he, too, will be able to hear his brothers and sisters despite not being one of them any longer.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing towards the bed. The jar with Dean’s soul is on the bedtable closest to him, the small sphere of light dimmer than Castiel has ever seen it, and completely motionless.

“Um, sure. Go ahead. Though to be fair, I still don’t really get what you’re planning to do.”

Castiel hesitates. He doesn’t want to get Sam’s hopes up for nothing; doesn’t want to get his own hopes up, either. He has no guarantee that this will work: all he knows is that he had to try— or die trying.

“I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I don’t think this has ever been done before,” he says, almost apologetically. The vial with his grace is still held fast in his hand, and he steps forward, his heart rate accelerating rapidly in that infuriating, entirely human way.

 _Here goes nothing,_ a voice in his mind says, a voice that sounds remarkably like Dean’s.

Moving as quickly as his injured abdomen will allow, Castiel uncorks the jar with Dean’s soul and tips his own grace into it, then replaces the lid. Instantly, the glass goes warm and almost vibrates under his hands, the coils and swirls of his grace lighting it up from the inside. It’s a little overwhelming to watch— the essence that had been the core of him for so long, moving about outside him, and he steps back, falling into the armchair Sam was sitting in earlier. All the same, he doesn’t let go of the jar, his hands and his eyes glued to it, and suddenly—

— his grace, which had been circling Dean’s broken soul almost curiously, latches on to it, just as it had done many years ago in the depths of Hell. A deep sense of recognition and love — and an unbearable tide of sadness — go through Castiel at the contact, and yes, Sam must be right, he realizes, there _is_ some grace still left in him, because he can sense everything that is happening. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply, and wills whatever power he has left to course through him, rushing out through his fingertips, across the glass, a vehement, single-minded emanation of _purpose._

_Heal him. Be one with him. Make him whole again._

A voice — distant, unimportant — rings in his head, sounding like a memory of Naomi’s. _If you do this, your grace is lost. Human souls are greedy, a furnace of pure, brilliant power. If you give your grace freely, it will be overtaken completely, and changed for good. It will become no longer yours, but_ his.

Castiel opens his eyes, the echo of the voice vanishing fast.

“I would consider it an honor,” he whispers.

“Cas?” Sam is concerned, looming over him from a short distance, his eyes darting from his face to the jar, where there are now two spheres of light— the azure-white burst of Castiel’s grace, and the deep golden color of Dean’s soul, shining low, a flame being stoked back to life.

“It’s all right, Sam,” Castiel says, smiling, and for the first time, he can really believe it to be true. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

* * *

 

 

_He would recognize Dean’s soul anywhere._

_He has always known as much; and it holds true even now, when it is battered and bruised and made less than itself._

_Carefully, so carefully, Castiel wraps gentle grace-fingers around the very essence of Dean, molding it back into shape._

_Like he had done a long time before, he cleans off the dust of sin and guilt from it. Like he had done a long time before, he stands in awe at the wealth of courage and love and_ goodness _that is revealed within._

_Gently, patiently, Castiel repairs Dean’s soul as he had once done for his body. Like that time, he somehow knows exactly what to do._

_Here, in a corner, Dean’s memories: the good ones and the painful ones. Next to them, in a darkened spot, the things Dean never talks about. At the core of it all, Dean’s immense capacity for self-sacrifice, his determination to protect the ones he loves. A part of his soul devoted to all the things that make him happy: his friends, his family, his car; food and shelter; sex and laughter; good books, loud music, and the endless stretch of the open road._

_A huge part is devoted to Sam — a wide-eyed child, an angry boy, and later a tall man, Dean’s lifelong partner in crime._

_And the most tender part — the most secret — the only part that wasn’t there when Castiel had first met Dean:_

_Castiel himself._

_If he had ever doubted Dean’s feelings — and he had, at length — this would cure his doubts for good. There is, quite simply,_ everything. _Admiration, respect, an old and never quite forgotten sense of awe and fear. Layered on top of those, familiarity and affection, a devotion that was born in the moment Castiel risked everything for Dean. And above all that, the newest, most fragile and glorious parts: a love burning with frightening passion, humbling and moving in its generosity, in its boundless depth._

 _Dean loves him back, and it makes Castiel’s mission all the easier. Soon enough, he’s reached the damaged parts of Dean’s soul, the segment that was mutilated by Metatron when Dean offered himself as a lamb of sacrifice. It’s not exactly_ broken— _it’s more like an_ absence _of being; the things that make Dean_ Dean, _that make his traits and thoughts and feelings coalesce into a harmonic entity, are no longer. In short, the parts are all there— it’s the engine that’s missing._

_Luckily, Castiel has energy to spare._

_His grace latches on to the edges of Dean’s soul easily, because Dean’s soul freely allows it, even welcomes it. Everywhere they touch, Dean’s soul responds, thrumming like a plucked string, latching back onto Castiel’s grace in turn._

_Dean’s soul had wanted salvation in Hell, with a desperation that resisted even his deepest guilt; the same yearning comes alive now, a hunger for life, for_ existence, _that Castiel cannot -_ will _not — deny._

_Slowly, the two entities that make up their essence fuse together. With every passing moment, more of Castiel’s grace passes into Dean’s soul, and there it stays, becoming part of Dean. It’s bliss, it’s unadulterated joy, because Dean wants him, wants all of him, and Castiel is glad to let him have it, now and forever._

_His grace works on, restlessly swirling and healing— not only filling the gaps left by the spell, but intertwining with Dean’s weaknesses and past griefs, touching them with light and warmth, mending old wounds with new forgiveness._

_Like in the Japanese art of kintsugi, Castiel’s grace lovingly seeps into the cracks of Dean’s soul, making them whole in a way they had never been; and in the points where they join — where grace has repaired ancient, painful flaws — they are no longer two entities, but one, made all the more beautiful for the marks of their union._

_Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Castiel feels he has nothing left to give, nothing except his own love and yearning. And as if in response to that yearning — slowly at first, then burning ever and ever more brightly, like a newborn sun — Dean’s soul comes to life, as brilliant and glorious as when Castiel had beheld it for the first time._

_He had loved Dean then, though he didn’t know it. He loves him now, with an earth-shattering intensity, a force he is sure could move mountains, turning the greatest human clichés into gospel truth._

Come back to me, _he breathes, through the last thin strands of his grace, now and forever inextricably part of Dean._

_And Dean’s soul — joyously, gratefully — pulses and thrums with incredible force and purpose, all to convey a single, vital message:_

Yes.

* * *

 

 

Castiel opens his eyes with a sense of clarity and faith pervading his mind, and a spreading tingling in his limbs.

Getting up — under Sam’s astonished eyes — he walks to the bed, cradling the jar carefully, like a newborn child. Inside, Dean’s soul pulses as brightly as ever, darting around and ricocheting against the walls; all over its surface, veins of dazzling white-blue shine in harmony with it, a safety net of light holding it together.

Slowly and deliberately, the jar is opened, and the globe of golden-white flies towards Dean’s body as if pulled by magnetic force, sinking into his chest easily, and seeming to light him up from the inside. Sam steps closer, but Castiel raises a commanding hand, saying nothing, and it’s enough to stop him in his tracks. 

Lowering his hand again, Castiel puts two fingers to Dean’s forehead, and letting his eyes slip closed, makes one last effort to pull together any shred of grace still lingering inside him.

_By whatever power is given me, let this body quicken. Let him rise and breathe and live._

Through his feeble connection to the grace that is no longer his, he feels Dean’s soul take root inside the body, making itself a home of it once again. With a sigh of relief, Castiel sets to finishing his work, using his last vestiges of power to mend Dean’s body, revert it to the state it was before— but suddenly, he feels power jolt violently under his fingertips, almost making him stagger back, and realizes what is happening.

The power infused in the grace he gave Dean has taken hold where once only Dean’s soul dwelled, and it’s repairing Dean’s body from the inside: the decay that had started to set in is blasted off, all stiffness leaving Dean’s features; the internal burns caused by the trials are healed over at a dizzying speed. _Of course. Grace heals faster from the inside._ He should have remembered that, but his head is growing increasingly heavy, the painkillers’ effects slowly wearing off. Still, he forces himself to stand and watch, guarding Dean’s recovery steadfastly, his hand never leaving Dean’s forehead.

It feels like an eternity — like longer than he’d waited for the Earth to cool after it had formed — but eventually, and gradually, a swell of color blossoms into Dean’s deathly-pale cheeks.

 _Please,_ Castiel thinks, feverishly, to a Father that’s never answered him before. _Please._

Dean’s lips — slowly turning from bruised to rosy — part. In the silence of the room, he draws breath.

A happiness and relief the likes of which he’s never known fill Castiel like a tidal wave. If he still had wings, he would soar and sing out, as loudly as he only ever has once before in all his existence—

_Dean Winchester is saved._

It is his last conscious thought before he collapses to the floor, with a sharp stab of pain in his abdomen, and his mind falls into darkness again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ol-gah-zil-em-na._ *
> 
> * The Enochian words for Castiel's spell are sourced from The Complete Enochian Dictionary. The formula means _my grace extends into this vessel_ (literally: "my spirit stretches forth herein").


	6. Epilogue

 

**Dean**

 

Dean wakes up submerged in darkness, but gradually — as he regains consciousness by increments — he becomes aware of a dim light in a corner.

He opens his eyes, surprised that he can even do so. By all rights, he should be dead.  _No, not dead,_  he reminds himself — dead would mean Heaven or Hell or some other crap-filled dimension in between —  _completely blinked out of existence._  He shouldn’t even  _have_  eyes to open.

Still, because overthinking stuff has never been his style, with eyes now opened, he sits up, and finds himself staring at the far wall of his room.

His room. With his things hung up, the picture of his mom on the dresser, his memory foam mattress under him. Maybe he really  _is_  in Heaven. But no, that isn’t possible. You need a soul to travel upstairs, and he feels pretty damn bodily right now.

_Just what the fuck happened here?,_ he puzzles, feeling himself for wounds. There’s nothing. Actually, he feels — he realizes with some astonishment — he feels good. Really good. His insides don’t feel like they’re being churned in acid anymore; the nausea, dizziness and smell of rot are gone, too.

Experimentally, he swings his legs around off the bed and gets up. No problem. His head doesn’t even spin once. He feels completely, perfectly fine— and that’s when he starts to worry.

Because he was done for, even without giving his soul to Cas. And if he’s fine and dandy now, then that means  _someone_ else isn’t, because that’s just how their lives work. Warily, he opens the door to the corridor. The lights are on, and there are faint sounds coming from the end of it, like someone talking quietly, but Dean can’t make out the words.

He walks on, carefully — he didn’t even bring a weapon in his confusion — and emerges into the war room to the sight of Sam and Charlie sitting at the table, carrying on a hushed conversation in a worried tone; at the other table, Bela is eating a bowl of soup, looking haggard and relieved at the same time.

_Well, fuck me sideways,_ is Dean’s first thought, quickly followed by another, far heavier and colder.

_Where’s Cas?_

In the meantime, Charlie has spotted him, and lets out an excited squeak. “Dean!”

Sam looks up instantly, his face lighting up as a weight visibly slips from his shoulders. They get up at the same time, but — to Charlie’s chagrin — Sam is quicker, wrapping him up in a crushing hug.

“You’re okay,” Sam whispers. “You really are okay.”

Dean lets himself hug him back, because no matter how worried or baffled he is, hugs have been a rare luxury in his life. He closes his eyes, allowing himself, for a brief moment, to relish the fact that yes, he  _is_  okay, after a very long stretch of being anything but.

“Alright, alright,” he grouses after a few seconds, extricating himself from Sam’s hold, “anyone mind telling me—”, but as soon as he’s free from Sam he finds himself with an armful of Charlie, and what the hell, yeah, he can deal with this too.

He rests his chin on top of Charlie’s head for a few moments while she squeezes him stronger than he would have expected of her.

“We weren’t sure it would work,” she explains, her voice a little strangled. “I mean we  _hoped_ so, but we weren’t sure, and now—”

“Woah, woah, you weren’t sure  _what_  would work?” Dean asks, putting a little distance between them so he can look Charlie in the eye.

She takes a deep breath, as if to start a lengthy explanation, but then stops, hesitant. The feeling of dread pressing on Dean’s chest gets markedly heavier.

“Where’s Cas?” he asks, slowly.

Sam sighs. “We gotta talk.”

* * *

“He fucking did  _what_?”

Dean paces restlessly, anger and frustration bubbling up with every step, while Sam stands aside, arms crossed. Charlie had elected to stay behind with Bela and go get celebratory ice cream for them all.  _Kid’s smart, alright,_ Dean thinks wryly.

“Dean—”

“You let him  _tear out his grace_ ? Why would you  _do_  that?” he snarls, turning on his heel.

“He didn’t exactly ask for my  _permission,_ Dean,” Sam snaps back, annoyed. “I just walked in and found him lying in a pool of his own blood. Scared me half to death, too.”

Dean runs shaking hands through his hair, trying to get himself under control. This isn’t Sam’s fault, he knows.

“Where is he now?”

“I put him up in one of the guest rooms, but he’s out cold. Has been for a while.”

“Define ‘a while’.”

Sam exhales, leaning against the wall. He’s exhausted, tired out by worry, and it shows in the lines of his face.

“Three days.”

“ _Three_ _days_ ?” Dean explodes. “Jesus, that’s not— that can’t be normal, can it? Fuck.”

“I don’t know, Dean. You were out that long too, after all,” Sam says, with his reasonable voice on.

“Shit. No word of a lie,” Dean huffs, dropping into a chair. His mind is reeling a little. He runs a hand over his face. “That’s not exactly reassuring. Was I just… blacked out?”

Sam nods, thoughtful. “I guess your body was just getting used to… well, y’know.” He shrugs.

“No, I  _don’t_  know. In fact I’m not even sure I understood what I’m supposed to be adjusting to.”

“Yeah, well.” Sam pushes himself off the wall. “None of us are sure, to be honest. I’d never heard of anything like that, and I didn’t get a chance to ask Cas, but… I assume he used his grace to effectively patch up your soul. It was like they… fused together.”

That idea, for some reason, makes heat rise in Dean’s cheeks, spreads a warmth inside his chest he can’t understand. On a much more recognizable level, though, what he feels is guilt. He doesn’t deserve to just carry Cas’s grace around inside himself while Cas is unconscious in bed, his chest and belly stitched up.

“You don’t think there’s a way for him to— to get it back or something, do you?” he asks, hesitant.

Sam smiles a little, kindly. “What I think is Cas meant for you to have it. And keep it.”

Dean nods, looking down at the floor. He knows Sam is right— and he knows what that means. Cas has completely fallen, and there’s no going back for him. He’s gonna live out the rest of his days as a human, and Dean is to blame. All he can do now is keep Cas close as much as he can, helping him through the rough gig that is humanity, and hope Cas doesn’t come to hate him for being his downfall.

That is, if Cas wakes up at all.

He finally looks away from his shoes and up at Sam.

“Take me to him.”

* * *

 

To say that Cas is in pretty bad shape would be to put it kindly.

Sam says they’ve given him water, via a spoon, and a sponge bath when they’d found him in a cold sweat, but there’s no helping Cas’s deathly pallor or the dark bruises under his eyes. Though his bandages are mostly clean, Dean can still see traces of red dotting a path from Cas’s sternum to his navel.

“Dammit, Cas,” he murmurs, “you dumb son of a bitch.”

He pulls up a chair and settles himself at the side of the bed, studying Cas’s emaciated face. Upon closer inspection, he frowns.

“Didn’t you say you stitched him up?” he asks Sam.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Then why don’t I see stitches? Or, you know, a scar?”

“Our best guess is that some leftover grace stuck to him when he cut it out,” Sam shrugs, eyebrows raised. “He’s pretty banged up overall, but that gash is the one thing that is healing much quicker than normal.”

Dean nods, a spike of relief easing through the leaden weight of his worry.

“You better wake up,” he mutters to Cas’s unconscious form. “Because I gotta kick your ass for being this stupid.”

When he makes no move to get up, Sam clears his throat and inches towards the door.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. I could use a nap myself.”

Dean waves him off with a noncommittal hand, his eyes glued to Cas’s face.

“Oh, and Dean?”

This gets him to look up, only to meet Sam’s trademark knowing face.

“When he wakes up — because he  _will_  wake up — try to stow your issues long enough to remember that Cas has a right to his own choices. He didn’t  _have_  to sacrifice for you, but he did it anyway. I think we both know why.”

They stare at each other for a couple seconds.

“If you’re waiting for the string quartet to start playing, you’ll have to get your cue some other way,” Dean deadpans.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Go to sleep, Samantha.”

Sam flips him the bird and steps through the door, only to peer back in a moment later.

“I’m glad you’re back, by the way. I think Cas made the right call. Even though you  _are_  an asshole.”

Dean smiles, touched despite himself. “What happened to accepting the other’s death for the greater good?”

“I think we both know I was bullshitting.”

Dean thinks about it for a moment.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

* * *

 

Castiel wakes up to a cotton-filled mouth and a pounding headache.

Completely disoriented, he blinks the fog of unconsciousness out of his eyes, and his surroundings come into focus. A semi-dark room, with a chest of drawers and a TV against one wall, and to the left of his bed—

“Hi,” Dean says. His smile is small, almost shy, but his eyes light up so intensely that Castiel doesn’t need powers to read the emotions written there. There’s monumental relief, and happiness. And, of course, love.

“How’re you feeling?” Dean asks, speaking softly, probably not to exacerbate whatever affliction he imagines Castiel to be suffering from. “You’ve been out a long time, man, had us all worried. You’ve been laid up in here for six days straight.”

Six days? Castiel squints in confusion. That sounds like a very long time. Then again, when he was still an angel, he would have considered it nothing. Perhaps he should be worried — or apologetic that he made his friends worry — but right now he can’t focus on anything, because  _Dean is alive,_ talking to him and sitting by his bed. Judging by the looks of him — his stubble, his tired eyes and general unkempt air — he must have been sitting here a long time. The thought fills Castiel with warmth.

“We were beginning to wonder if you’d ever wake up,” Dean laughs, with that forced laugh of his that means he’s come very close to breaking down. “Anyway, can I get you anything? Do you feel—”

And then Dean isn’t saying anything anymore, because Castiel is kissing him soundly on the mouth, one arm hooked around his neck to pull him close, because Dean is _alive_  and  _here_ and Castiel is not letting him get away, not this time, not ever again.

They kiss for a while, breathing quietly through their nose, angling their faces one way, then another, softly, leisurely. It’s bliss, and it costs Castiel an extreme effort of will to break apart from him.

Dean is staring at him, his beautiful green eyes half-lidded, his lips pink from their kissing.

“I have horrible morning breath, don’t I,” Castiel doesn’t so much ask as he states.

“Well, it’s actually five in the afternoon,” Dean says, cocking his head to one side, “but yeah. Yeah, you kinda do.”

A beat of silence goes by, and then they dissolve into quiet laughter.

“I should shower,” Castiel says. His stomach grumbles at a disconcertingly loud volume. “…And eat,” he amends. “I had forgotten how much maintenance being human involves.”

He instantly realizes he’s said something wrong at Dean’s downcast eyes, but before he has a chance to inquire, Dean’s getting up from his chair, nodding quickly.

“Yeah, um, you— you do that. Shower, I mean. I’ll go fix you some grub, tell the others you’re awake, all that. Charlie will probably wanna throw a party or something.”

“I like Charlie,” Castiel says earnestly.

“Yeah, well, she likes you, that’s for sure,” Dean snorts, heading for the door.

“Um…” he starts, with his hand on the doorknob.

Castiel looks at him, eager for a chance to dispel the moment of awkwardness, but it turns out to be a long shot.

“Take care not to slip in the shower. Give us a shout if you need anything,” Dean simply says, and retreats hastily.

Castiel watches him go, puzzled. Human confrontation is another thing that’s always come hard to him, its endless social cues maddeningly difficult to master. He prefers kissing — kissing is easier by far. You can hardly misinterpret  _that_ , Castiel thinks ruefully as he starts shedding his clothes. Still, he’ll brave this too. He has a feeling he knows what just happened, and if he’s correct, he’s not going to allow it to stand in the way a minute longer than it has to.

After all, he thinks as he heads for the shower, there’ll be plenty of time for kissing Dean later— if he’s lucky, the rest of their lives.

* * *

Awaking from his comatose state to face the onslaught of human experience proves more trying than Castiel remembered. By the time he has showered, dressed, fed, and faced Sam and Charlie’s enthusiasm to see him walking about, he’s already exhausted.

Part of it has to do with his weakened state, of course. Even though his departing grace had helped cushion the blow from the wound, and some trickle of it must be helping him recuperate faster than normal, it’s still a rather debilitating injury, and part of him just wants to go back to bed.

He can’t do that, however, because first there’s something far more important to attend to.

He makes his way to Dean’s room, his socked feet padding onto the floor. The socks, like the rest of the clothes he’s wearing — soft blue sweatpants and an old, washed-out Deep Purple t-shirt — had been laid out on his bed when he got out of the shower. Dean must have left them for him, of course: even though they were all clean, they still retain a trace of his smell, and it warms Castiel up from the inside.

Upon reaching the door, he hesitates for a moment, gathering his resolve. Then, setting his jaw determinedly, he knocks twice.

“Yeah,” Dean answers from the inside— a little too quickly, a little too loudly, and Castiel, who’s slowly getting better at reading humanity, recognizes it as the signal of nervousness it is. “Come in.”

He lets himself in to find Dean sitting on the bed, headphones around his neck and his hands folded in his lap like he’s only just finished wringing them. Castiel closes the door behind himself, then leans against it.

“Hi,” he says, simply; he’d planned to get straight to the point, but suddenly he feels lightheaded, almost giddy. His mind, perhaps still a little addled by the painkillers, can’t seem to get over the fact that he’s in Dean’s bedroom, and Dean right there, long legs spread out on the bedcover, and they’re alone, and there’s an endless loop of  _what if’s_ playing in his head. Nerves, shyness, excitement, arousal: they’re all there, tangled together in his belly, impossible to separate from each other. This is humanity as he remembered it; everything cranked up to 11, an endless rollercoaster of emotions. It’s heady, and somewhat frightening, and he realizes he’d desperately missed it.

“Hey,” Dean responds, with a half-smile. “You find everything okay?”

Castiel nods. “Thank you for the clothes.”

Dean waves it off, then scratches his neck as if he’s embarrassed: “We can get you some of your own of course, since you’re, um. Well, I imagine you’ll be staying for a while, at least, and humans don’t really sleep in trenchcoats.”

There it is again: that shadow crossing Dean’s face whenever he mentions Castiel being human.

“It’s alright,” he replies, earnestly. “I like wearing your clothes.”

Dean turns a little pink at that, and ducks his head slightly, obviously flustered.

“Geez, Cas, don’t just throw out crap like that.”

“Why not?” Castiel steps closer, sitting at the other end of Dean’s bed, one leg tucked under himself. “It’s true. I like how they smell.”

Dean’s ears turn a darker pink, and he opens his mouth to say something, then shakes his head.

“Well,  _I_  like how they look on you,” he replies, with a smirk, “so I guess it’s a win-win situation.”

The mood has shifted, and Castiel can tell, though he’s not sure what he did to affect it, that it’s because of him; the heat in his belly seems to burn brighter, and for a moment he contemplates avoiding conversation entirely in favor of kissing Dean again, but he pulls himself together.

“We need to talk,” he starts, and immediately he sees Dean’s hackles rise in defense.

“Oh, God,” he mutters, his voice full of dread.

“God has nothing to do with it,” Castiel replies in a calculated deadpan tone, which gets Dean to eyeroll and huff.

“I want to talk about…” he looks for the right words. “I want to talk about me.”

“Handsome  _and_  modest!” Dean waggles his eyebrows.

“Shut up,” Castiel retorts, grinning despite himself. “I mean I want to talk about my current situation, and the choices that brought me here, and what it means for me… and for you.”

Dean sobers up instantly at that, and his eyes find his hands in his lap.

“Yeah, about that,” he starts. “I just wanted you to know upfront, I— I don’t expect anything from you. I mean, shit, Cas, what you’ve had to give up— what you’ve sacrificed to bring me back, that’s…” he shakes his head. “I don’t even know where to start. That’s  _huge_ , man, and I’m sorry that you had to lose your grace to save my dumb ass.”

Dean looks up now, and his green eyes are so earnest, so full of guilt and self-reproach, that Castiel’s heart breaks for him.

“I just want you to know that it’s okay if you don’t want to be around me after this. If it reminds you of what you lost, I…” he bites his lip. “I’m not gonna lie, it’d be tough, but I’d understand. You can have all the space you need. But I need you to know that I’ll do anything I can to help, if you’ll let me.”

Castiel swallows, licks his lips. “Are you done?”

Dean nods, slowly. “Yeah, I guess. Just… I’m sorry.”

Castiel nods as well, his face impassive.

“You’re an idiot,” he says then, dryly.

“Um, okay? Thanks a lot,” Dean drawls sarcastically, though his eyes flash with hurt, but Castiel steamrolls over him.

“You’re an idiot for not understanding that this was my choice all along. That I didn’t  _have_  to do anything— I  _wanted_  to. That a world without you in it, to me, is simply not a world worth living in.” He pauses long enough to watch Dean quietly suck in a breath, eyes warily fixed on him, hands still restless in his lap. Castiel reaches forward and takes one of them in his own hands, his eyes never leaving Dean’s in turn.

“You have to understand, Dean,” he continues, more gently now, “that this is where my path led. There was never any other possible outcome for me, because this was the one I  _chose._ ” Dean’s hand is warm in his, and he strokes his thumbs over the back of it.

“I could not stand the thought of you dead — worse than dead, trapped in non-existence without even an afterlife — but in the end, even if that hadn’t happened… by some road, we’d still be here. I would have still given up my grace.”

Dean frowns at this, looking bewildered. “But  _why_ ?” he asks, softly. “Cas, this— being human— it’s  _hard._  You could live forever, man. You could have anything you want, go anywhere you want. Giving up all of that, all your powers…” he shakes his head, baffled.

A sharp stab of worry goes through Castiel’s heart at those words, and he has to hold himself in check carefully, measure his words.

“Would you rather not have me around like this?” he asks eventually, sounding more hurt than he’d meant to. “When I can’t be of any use to you?”

“What? No! What the fuck, Cas, how can you even  _think_  that?” Instantly, Dean moves down the bed until their thighs are touching, squeezing Castiel’s hand hard.

“That’s not what I meant at all, just… I’m shit at this. The talking thing. I’m so sorry. But I swear I couldn’t care less about your powers, okay? I like you for  _you,_ ” Dean says, then huffs quiet laughter. “God, I sound like a Lifetime movie. Still, it’s the truth. Honestly, I just… want you around, man. I don’t care if you’re smiting demons or stubbing your big toe against the washing machine, as long as you’re  _here._ The only thing I care about—” he looks directly into Castiel’s eyes — “is that you’re happy. And I don’t…”

Dean trails off, shaking his head, but Castiel can tell exactly what he meant.  _I don’t know if you’re gonna be happy without your powers. I don’t know if you’re gonna be happy with me. I don’t know if I’m enough._

“Do you really want to know why I would want to give up my grace?” Castiel asks, quietly, his hands still held in Dean’s. Dean nods, and though he’s mostly looking down at their joint hands, Castiel can read a flash of hope in his eyes.

“I never understood what my sister meant,” Castiel says, “until I fell in love with you. Anna said she’d fallen to Earth because she couldn’t stand the detachment anymore; because she wanted to truly be one with humanity. At first, I thought she was insane. I understood emotions perfectly, or so I thought. How could it be any other way, since I felt so strongly for you? But then I became human, and suddenly everything made so much more sense. Knowing how fragile this life can be, and how intense—“ he stops for a moment, almost overcome.

“I realized I no longer wanted to stand by and watch, protected by the armor of my grace. I wanted  _everything_ , the good and the bad. I wanted to share everything you experienced — the pain, the happiness, the music you listen to, the food you cook — and most of all, obviously, I wanted  _you._ ” Castiel feels himself flush a little, despite — or perhaps because of — the conviction in his words.

“So you see, really, it was only a matter of time. I didn’t know it at first, but from the moment I experienced humanity — or maybe even from the moment I first met you — I was always going to end up here. I would always choose to become human. And the fact that when I finally gave up my grace, it was to bring you back to life…” he shrugs, a smile blooming on his face, “I can imagine no better use for it.”

He looks up, waiting for Dean to do the same, and when he does, he holds his eyes in place with a stare that brooks no possible argument.

“So don’t ever,  _ever_ feel guilty about what I did, Dean, because you had nothing to do with it. It was  _my_ choice; my decision, from beginning to end. And I choose a human life,” he says, his words full of quiet fervour, as he pulls Dean’s hand to rest over his heart.

“I choose a human life with you.”

Dean blinks quickly, his eyes shining — it might be a trick of the light, but Castiel suspects it’s tears — and he swallows a few times before he finds his voice. When he does, it’s choked up, brimming with emotion, but there’s an undercurrent of mirth coursing through it.

“…Sorry, what was all that about? You kinda lost me at ‘fell in love with you’.”

Castiel bursts out laughing at that, in relief as much as in happiness, shoving at Dean’s arm with all the vehemence his injured abdomen will allow.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You love it,” Dean replies, gently shoving at his shoulder in retaliation. It doesn’t escape Castiel’s attention that Dean is slowly getting used to that word, like a child testing the water in an icy lake, though he still shies away from using it directly. It doesn’t matter, though; Castiel can wait and in the meantime, he doesn’t mind leading by example.

“I do,” he admits then, smiling. “I do love you.”

That shifts the mood again, the playfulness dissolving in favor of something quieter, more intense. For a few moments, they sit there on Dean’s bed, just looking at each other. Dean’s eyes wander towards Castiel’s lips on occasion, and Castiel himself burns with the longing to touch.

“So,” Dean says eventually, his voice pitched low and quiet,“then you’re okay with staying here, then? At least for a while?”

“I’m okay with staying here,” Castiel replies. “For a while. Indefinitely. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Oh,” Dean says, “I’ll have you.” 

And then — finally,  _finally_  — Dean is kissing him, Castiel’s whole body thrumming with waves of  _yes, please, yes_ as soon as Dean’s tongue slips into his mouth.

They kiss like that for a while, unhurried and sweet, but there’s something different from they kiss they shared when Castiel first woke up, a slow-burning urgency, the flames in Castiel’s belly stoked higher and higher every time their tongues meet, every time Dean pulls back to suck on his lower lip, then gently nibble at the top one.

Castiel knows where this is leading, and every fiber of him burns with eagerness, his hands trembling slightly as they reach for the lapels of Dean’s shirt, tugging it off him. Dean, for his part, is more than happy to help, quickly shrugging out of the flannel, then pulling his t-shirt over his head in one swift movement, and Castiel stops breathing for a moment.

Dean is beautiful, utterly beautiful, his body solid and warm, from the curve of his back to his firm chest. He’s all broad shoulders and lean waist, strong muscles playing under pale skin dotted with freckles, and Castiel is almost dizzy with it. The first time, in Dean’s car, he hadn’t had a chance to just  _watch_ , to take in the sight of Dean’s naked body, and now he can’t tear his eyes off him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he breathes, which makes the tips of Dean’s ears pinken once more.

“Your turn,” Dean says in lieu of a reply, reaching for the hem of Castiel’s t-shirt. Castiel lifts his arms in compliance, and holds his breath while Dean divests him of the soft material with the utmost care, mindful of his bandages. For a short moment, an odd kind of anxiety lodges in his throat— will Dean like him, as well? Castiel has never paid much attention to his body, although he was aware others found it to be attractive; it had always been just a means to an end. But now, for the first time, it strikes him as extremely important, even essential, that Dean find him pleasing, that Dean wants him as much as Castiel wants Dean. He’s suddenly all too aware of the marks on his chest, the slight gauntness from not eating enough through this last period, and his mind races in search of any other flaws— but all that is silenced when Dean gets the shirt off him and lets out a low whistle.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, his eyes roving over Castiel’s chest and his shoulders, then lingering on the Enochian tattoo over Castiel’s hipbone.

“All right?” Castiel asks, feeling awkward and unsure despite the smile tugging at his lips.

“More than all right,” Dean nods, leaning in to lay a kiss on Castiel’s collarbone, which steals the breath from him all over again. “You’re really, really fucking hot.”

For a reason Castiel can’t place, the whispered curse makes his blood run even hotter, and he gently pushes Dean down on the bed, lips chasing his all the while. When he feels Dean’s hand slip below the waistband of his pants, he moans encouragement into Dean’s mouth, grinding into the warmth of his palm. Forgoing underwear, he decides, was an inspired choice.

Dean works his hand over Castiel’s already-painful erection, thumb swiping over the head every two strokes or so, and Castiel is sure he could come like this, from the touch of Dean’s hand alone, when Dean pulls away from the kiss with a wet  _smack_  and Castiel feels Dean’s lips at his ear, the warm breath making the hair on his neck stand on end.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, “I want—“

“Anything,” Castiel swears, feverishly, “ _anything_ .”

In the silence of the room, he can distinctly hear Dean swallow, and then he’s speaking again, the feeling of his lips brushing against the shell of Castiel’s ear unbelievably erotic.

“I want you in me,” Dean whispers, his voice heavy with longing and nervousness, then ducks his head into the curve of Castiel’s neck, breathing him in as if to calm himself.

Castiel pulls back then, only slightly, only enough to see Dean’s face, gently making Dean look at him with a hand on Dean’s cheek.

“Are you sure?” he asks, because the last thing he wants is for Dean to second-guess himself at a later point and regret this. “Because Dean, if you’d rather— I don’t mind,” he assures, staring Dean in the eye. Castiel knows — has known for a while — that Dean’s views on manliness have been skewed when he was still young, his father’s figure looming large in his mind; and while Castiel finds his convictions baffling, he has no problems being on the receiving end of sex. In fact, after his experience with Dean, he can’t imagine why anyone would ever  _not_  want to.

“No, it’s—“ Dean bites his lip. “I’m sure. I want to. I’ve wanted to for a while. I just…” he trails off, and Castiel knows what he means, so he kisses Dean’s lips instead of replying. Their mouths are closed, but it’s anything  _but_  chaste, Castiel’s lips moving over Dean’s slow and heady while Dean grinds himself against him, stroking Castiel’s erection in turn.

“If you want me to,” Castiel says eventually, in between dropping small kisses at the corners of Dean’s mouth, “if you really want me to, Dean, then I would be honored. Because I want to, too.”

“Yeah?” Dean manages to gasp, distracted as he is by trying to catch Castiel’s lips with his own.

“Yes. More than you can possibly imagine.”

Dean nods, a little shakily, looking as drunk on this as Castiel feels. “Then do it. Do it now.” He takes a shaky breath, then surges up to kiss him, his tongue hot against the back of Castiel’s teeth. “Fuck,  _please_  do it now.”

Castiel isn’t sure how he manages to navigate the steps of that request without collapsing into a puddle of  _want_ , but somehow he does, nodding fervently as he pushes Dean down on his back again, then fumbling at his jeans until, blessedly, they come off, then pawing at Dean’s boxers until those follow the same path too (in his enthusiasm, he barely notices the _rip_ ping sound of over-stretched elastic, but Dean does, and guffaws a bit until Castiel sticks his tongue in his mouth to shut him up).

Dean’s sex is as breathtaking as the rest of him, lying heavy on his stomach, and Castiel can’t keep himself from touching, his fingers tracing the length of it with something akin to awe at the way Dean responds to his touch. He strokes Dean for a while, ducking his head down to nibble at the inside of his thighs, going further and further up until, eventually, he takes the tip of Dean’s erection in his mouth, sucking experimentally at it, and Dean  _gasps_  like all the air’s been ripped from his lungs.

Castiel tries to find his way around, slightly bobbing his head up and down and trying to gauge how he’s doing by Dean’s steady stream of profanities and  _yes, Cas, please, fuck_  until suddenly Dean lets out an entirely different kind of gasp.

“ _Shit—_  Teeth, Cas,  _teeth!_ ”

Castiel pulls off as quickly as he can, unable to help the smacking sound when Dean’s cock slips out of his mouth.

“Did I hurt you?”

Dean grimaces slightly. “Let’s just say you biting my dick isn’t what I’d call good foreplay.”

“I’m sorry—“ he starts, but Dean holds up a hand.

“Listen, why don’t we save the advanced stuff for another time, and why don’t you just come over here and fuck me already? Unless you’ve changed your mind, that is.” There’s a glint of humour in Dean’s eyes, but that doesn’t stop Castiel from glaring at him and grasping his thighs, spreading them with just enough vehemence to let him know just how much he has  _not_  changed his mind.

Dean, far from being intimidated, reaches into his bedside table for a bottle of lube and hands it to him wordlessly. After that things go quiet for a while, as Castiel devotes all his attention to opening Dean up as gently and as thoroughly as Dean had done for him in the backseat of the Impala. As he works first one finger, then two inside Dean, the only noise in the room is their heavy breathing and Dean’s stream of soft curses and encouragement, keeping Castiel on track when he starts to worry he’s not doing well.

“Ah, Cas,  _yes_ , just like that, you’re doing great, you’re— _ah,_ fuck, don’t stop—“

Castiel doesn’t stop, working Dean open with single-minded intent, searching for the spot that had made him see stars when Dean had stroked it that first time. He can tell he’s found it when Dean arches up under him, letting out a high, wounded noise as his body  _clenches_  around Castiel’s fingers and  _oh,_ Castiel isn’t going to last long by this rate.

Swallowing, he keeps massaging Dean’s prostate, adding a third finger when Dean asks for it in a strangled voice, patiently working him loose. The last thing he wants is to risk hurting Dean in any way.  _Not that, never that,_ he vows to himself,  _never again._

“Cas,” Dean pants suddenly, “now. Do it now. Please, I’m ready,  _please_ — just get  _in_  me.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks, his heart hammering in his throat. Dean is spread out in front of him like a banquet, his chest flushed with arousal and his cock bobbing heavy between his legs, and Castiel has never wanted anything more.

“I’m sure, God, I’m  _sure_ , just fucking  _do it,_ Cas, I need you to,” Dean begs, his hands digging into the pillow at his back. “I _need_ you.”

It’s a declaration Castiel has heard before, and like the first time, it steals the breath from him.

“I need you too,” he whispers, astonished by the immense truth of it. He’d never needed anything in his millennia of life, but he needs Dean now more than he could ever have imagined.

He takes himself in his lube-slicked hand, making sure to coat every inch. Then he grips Dean’s hips and, slowly — so very slowly and carefully — starts sliding inside him, unable to look away from where their bodies are joined.

There’s a pained moan when the head of Castiel’s cock breaches him, which makes Castiel look up in fear, but Dean blindly reaches down to run a hand through Castiel’s hair and gasps “Don’t you fucking dare stop, Cas, for don’t you  _fucking dare—_ “, so Castiel lets out a groan of his own and sharply slides home inside Dean, bottoming out in one long stroke.

After that, instinct takes over, an instinct he didn’t even know he had but which leads him without falter, guides him to pull out — a slow, dragging motion — and then drive back inside Dean’s body, steady and sure, like it’s where he belongs.

He thinks maybe it is.

Dean is wonderful beneath him, his body pliant and sweat-slick and alive, his plush lips parting around quiet moans and words of whispered encouragement while his hands rove all over Castiel’s back, mapping the expanse of it as if to commit it to memory.

“Oh, God, it’s so good, Cas, it’s so fucking  _good,_ you’re great, you’re—  _oh,_ harder, please, fuck,  _harder_ —“

The breathy praise goes straight to Castiel’s throbbing erection, and he has to shut Dean up with a kiss to avoid finishing then and there, but he still complies, slamming into Dean with burning purpose, the slip-slide sound of skin against skin thunderously loud in his ears. He’s dimly aware he’s gripping Dean’s hips hard enough to hurt, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind, groaning softly into his mouth and rising up to meet his every thrust. His body is feverishly warm and unimaginably  _tight_  around Castiel, and he can feel his orgasm approaching fast.

They’re both so far gone they’re not even really kissing anymore so much as sharing breath, lips brushing every time Castiel thrusts in, and as he feels the edge coming closer and closer he murmurs, his voice filled with adoration, “You’re perfect. This is perfect, it’s everything,  _you’re_  everything, Dean, everything, I love you, I love you so much,“ and he’s gone, he’s utterly lost, spilling himself inside Dean as his eyes flutter closed.

Dean holds him through it, hands running through his hair, and perhaps it’s because Castiel isn’t looking at him, or perhaps Dean is simply as lost as he is, but suddenly there are lips pressed at his ear, and he can feel a wetness against his temple and then Dean’s sobbing, a raw, defenceless sound— “I love you too, I love you too, God, I love you more than anything, I love you—” and then Dean is shuddering and clenching around him, his cock spilling against Castiel’s stomach in wave after wave until they’re both utterly spent, and all Castiel can do is hold Dean through the aftershocks and think  _this is it, this is everything, this is what humans fight and live and kill for, this is what they write poems and songs about._

Afterwards, Dean holds him close and tangles their legs together, nosing at his damp hair. It’s languid and indulgent and perfect, and Castiel could almost fall asleep, if it weren’t for the fact that would deprive him of Dean.

“Cas?” Dean asks, his voice fragile and guileless in the afterglow, like a piece of crystal being held against the light.

Castiel  _hmms_  in response, his fingers tracing Dean’s side up and down, the motion hypnotic in an odd, wonderful way.

“This is gonna sound awfully selfish, but I’m glad you patched me up like you did. I’m glad I have some of you inside me.”

“Well, you just did, at any rate,” Castiel deadpans, unable to help himself or the grin that spreads across his face.

“Asshole,” Dean laughs. Then he adds, more soberly: “I just mean it’s nice, the idea that even if you wanted to leave one day, I’d still have a piece of you with me, in a way. You know?”

“I understand. But you’re not going to need a piece of me, because I’m not going anywhere,” Castiel states, entwining his fingers with Dean’s.

“Good,” Dean replies, simply, kissing his mouth with heartbreaking tenderness, and Castiel hates the faint trace of doubt he can still see lingering in Dean’s eyes, but he knows that will take time to disappear completely.

Luckily, Castiel considers as he rests his head over Dean’s chest and listens to the steady beat of Dean’s heart, they happen to  _have_  time.

In fact, he thinks, smiling as he drifts off to sleep, they have the rest of their lives.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, whew. My very first Dean/Cas Big Bang. _That_ just happened.
> 
> This fic has honestly been a monumental adventure for me, and I can't quite believe I got to the end of it. As someone whose average fic averages about 2,000 words, to write almost 60,000 was a wild ride from start to finish. I've struggled with it, had fun with it, and am generally drained and happy and too confused to realize this is happening.
> 
> Anyway, if you've stuck with this to the end-- thank you, and I hope you enjoyed it. :) ♥


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